Get Out Alive
by HoistTheColours
Summary: Jack, a man who is secretly teetering on the brink of insanity, desperately seeks a life of normalcy. Joker/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Get Out Alive**

_**Synopsis: **__Jack, a man secretly teetering on the brink of insanity, desperately seeks a life of normalcy._

_**Author's Notes: **__This story takes place during Batman Begins, when Batman first begins to make himself known in Gotham and Jack starts to become obsessed with the masked vigilante._

* * *

**Chapter One**

He hadn't meant to see _her_.

He had other plans that day, other things he had wanted to do. He had absolutely no intentions of going inside that building and striking up a conversation with her. He just didn't . . . _do_ things like that.

He hadn't talked to someone of the opposite sex in years, not in the way he wanted to talk to her, anyway.

It wasn't that he ignored females or didn't like being around them, he simply didn't bother himself with them. He didn't really bother himself much with anybody, now that he came to really think about it. He had always been quiet and reserved for as long as he could remember, not saying much at all while his thoughts would run rampant and scattered through his unbridled mind.

He had been casually strolling down the sidewalk, the city surprisingly quiet and calm for a Thursday evening. It was raining lightly, a faint, misty drizzle that hardly managed to pierce through the thick fog that clouded the city and enveloped the buildings around him in a tight blanket. Occasional heat lightening would flash in the distance, no thunder accompanying the action. The sky above was the color of mud, cloaking the city in a strange, chocolate-colored pall. Behind him, the evening sun was just beginning to disappear beneath the horizon, broken streams of sunlight filtering in between the swirling wreaths of fog and dust that hung suspended in the air.

The atmosphere was sticky and hot, and Jack's limp curls were slightly damp around his forehead as he brushed them aside. Even though fall was fast approaching—it being almost late September—the sweltering summer heat still tormented the city, refusing to relent its warmth.

Jack sighed and stuffed his hands deep inside the pocket of his slacks, casually glancing inside the window of a bookstore as he passed. He suddenly halted in his tracks, however, when someone inside caught his attention.

And that was when he saw _her_. Standing in one of the narrow aisles nestled in between two tall, looming bookcases, she was the most beautiful thing that had caught his attention in a long, long time. Her fingers were leisurely flipping through the pages of a soft cover book, the title on the spine unreadable from his view outside.

He studied her through the window closely, not sure why he was so intrigued. She looked . . . normal, but somehow stunning enough to catch his immediate attention at the same time. Her medium length hair was drawn up into a loose ponytail and was strung through the back loop of a faded, navy blue baseball cap, and her jeans were of a dark wash. A fitted, baby blue shirt was hidden by the brown cardigan that rested on her shoulders, the sweater left unbuttoned.

He didn't know how long he had stood out in the drizzling rain on the sidewalk simply watching her, but what he _did _know was that he couldn't take his eyes off her. She wasn't model-esque looking by any means, nor did she seem to have any noticeable, striking features about her. She just looked ordinary, and maybe that's what appealed to him most about her, the fact that she didn't look so fake or overdone.

Jack suddenly found that regardless of him and his usual tendencies to keep to his reclusive self, he wanted to talk to her. He knew that over the years he had become increasingly less social with the opposite sex, but he still took notice of them from time to time. He wasn't completely oblivious to the occasional pretty girl now and then. Striking up conversations with them, however, had sadly proven futile over the years. He had had a few successful dates at one point in his life, but they had all ended the same way. _"Listen, Jack, I think you're really sweet and everything, but . . . but I just don't think this is going to work out. The scars they . . . I don't know, I just don't think I can do this anymore." _

There had been one girl that had seemed promising, though. Yes, he remembered her. She was a pretty, petite little thing with short brown hair and cool blue eyes and had an outgoing, bubbly personality. They had only dated for three months, but Jack was already head over heels for her and had planned to propose. On the night of his planned proposal however, she dropped the proverbial bomb. She reluctantly admitted to him that she had only dated him for as long as she had because she had felt sorry for him. _"No, no, Jack, please don't look so heartbroken about it, I think you're a wonderful guy, but . . . ."_ And that had been the end of _that_. He hadn't seen her since. It was always about the scars, it seemed.

That incident, however, had happened long, _long _ago, probably when he was a mere teenager, in fact, if his memories served him correctly.

After that episode had blown over, he simply hadn't taken an interest in pursuing companionship anymore. It bored him and he didn't enjoy it; he wasn't a girl-chaser, never had been. He wasn't awkward around the opposite sex, not by any means; it just seemed that he always had trouble trying to strike up a conversation with them, mostly because he was never truly interested to begin with.

Sometimes, women would come up to him when he was out by himself, either grabbing lunch or shopping for groceries—which was rare—and he would sometimes humor them for a bit, talking politely with them as he stood in line at the checkout. The second they moved in for the kill, however, _do you think I could get your number? _he would politely turn them down. Women bored him, quite frankly, and were usually more trouble than they were worth.

Instead, he buried himself in his work, and when he wasn't working, he was at home, reading or conducting experiments about the things he had read about. Over the years, he had gained a vast knowledge of random tidbits and interesting facts, none of which had proved useful in his job field, but still remained interesting to him nonetheless.

Licking his lips decidedly, Jack determined to go in and talk to her—or at least try to. He was probably a little rusty, but he figured he would at least give it a go. Besides, it was hot outside and his clothes were beginning to cling to him uncomfortably in the evening heat.

Stepping under the small, green and white-striped awning, he opened the door as a bell chimed from overhead. He stepped inside and was relieved with a blast of cool air, his shoulders relaxing instantly.

The bookstore was a small, independent little shop with dark, tall bookcases that loomed overhead. Low-hanging, dimly lit lights were suspended from the ceiling between the isles of books while tables with matching wooden chairs were scattered in the back. The store was fairly empty and also very quiet, much like outside. The scent of old, dusty books and the creamy, sensual scent of a woman's lingering perfume hung in the air as he stepped further inside. Jack found it oddly pleasing.

Pressing his lips together in determination, he straightened out the wrinkles in his jacket and began to casually but slowly near her aisle.

When he was standing at the end of it, he was able to get a closer look at her.

The first thing he noticed was that she was tall, but still shorter than his lengthy frame, as most women generally were. She was of a slim build, had long legs, a small chest, and a cute, shapely mouth. She also appeared to be somewhere in her early twenties, as was he.

He swallowed thickly and ran a hand through his hair, turning away from her and pretending to browse through a nearby bookshelf when she suddenly glanced up. _What am I doing?_ he wondered, uninterestedly glancing at the books stacked on the shelf in front of him. What if she had a boyfriend? . . . What if she was_ married_?

He swallowed again as more doubts began to weigh in his mind. She was cute, yes, but was also probably no different from all the other women he had met.

With this thought in mind, he began to eye the exit sign above the door in the back, thinking that he'd take a shortcut home.

As he turned to leave the aisle, however, he suddenly crashed straight into the woman's back, not aware that she had moved from her spot and had been standing behind him.

Startled, the woman let out a small gasp while her book dropped to the floor. She spun around to meet Jack, placing a hand on her heaving chest. "Oh, you scared me," she breathed, laughing lightly.

"Sorry," he began, furrowing his brows apologetically. "I really should watch where I'm going." He cringed and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Are . . . are you okay?"

She smiled gently at him and nodded. "I'm fine," she assured him. Her eyes stared up at him from underneath the navy blue baseball cap, and, even though she tried to be nonchalant about it, he could feel her eyes roaming over the expanse of his scars. Jack suddenly felt a wave of sick familiarity come over him and nearly grimaced. _Here we go again. _

However, instead of commenting on the strangeness of his scars or asking questions like most others did, she simply bit her lip, a small blush coloring her cheeks as silence followed between them.

Jack swallowed and then bent down to pick up her book for her. He flipped and read the cover as he stood, his face contorting into one of genuine surprise upon seeing the title. "_Crime and Punishment_? That's a little dark, don't you think?"

"Oh." The woman laughed gently, and the sound reminding him of the tinkling bells, pleasant to his ears. She looked up at him and blushed, pink once again warming the apples of her cheeks. For some reason, he thought that was cute. "I suppose it is, isn't it?" She let her eyes briefly drop to the floor before looking up again. "I love crime novels," she confessed, distractedly fingering one of the buttons on her cardigan as she looked up at him.

Jack suddenly found the corner of his mouth pulling into a small smile. He was strangely charmed by her almost shy and hesitant manner of speaking, her warm eyes and soft smile. "You're not a lawyer, are you?" he teased.

She laughed again. "No, no, I'm just an English teacher."

Jack raised his brows and nodded, shifting his weight to his other foot. He suddenly found that he didn't know quite how to respond, but for reasons he couldn't quite place, he wanted to keep talking her. He searched for something to say when she finally chimed in.

"I teach high school students at Gotham Heights," she offered with a light shrug of her shoulders, hoping that that would pick up the conversation again.

"Oh . . . you enjoy it?"

"I do, yes." Jack nodded his head while more silence ensued between them. After a moment, the woman offered her hand, smiling gently. "I'm Emma, by the way."

"Jack," he replied with a half smile, "Jack Napier." His hand firmly grasped hers as they shook, Jack holding on a bit longer than necessary. "Your hands are warm," he noted suddenly, not quite sure why he had felt the need to comment on that aloud.

She looked up at him from underneath the brim of her baseball cap as they let go. "Yours are cold," she quietly returned.

He grinned at her then, amused by her reply while Emma dropped her eyes to the old, frayed carpet and blushed. Jack licked his lips and stepped closer to her as a stranger shuffled past them in the narrow isle. Jack suddenly nodded his head, indicating to her attire. "Your uh, your sweater," he swallowed, "I think you buttoned it wrong."

"What?" She suddenly looked up at him in surprise and then down when she noticed where his eyes were. "Oh," she exclaimed, laughing when she noticed that she had slipped the third button through the second hole.. "I don't know what I was thinking." She smiled, embarrassed, and proceeded to button her sweater correctly.

Another awkward pause ensued, and Jack, not knowing what else to do, outstretched his hand again. "Here's your book."

As she reached for it, Jack felt her fingers brush against his and he swore he felt electricity spark between them. It was like something straight out of some cheesy romance novel, but he couldn't deny the feeling. He looked up into her eyes to see if she had felt the same thing he had, but she let on no indication. God, what was _wrong_ with him? Why did he suddenly feel this way?

"Thank you." She placed the book on the shelf behind her and turned back around. When it seemed that there was nothing more to say, Jack sighed and glanced outside, noticing that the brown, smog-covered sky was beginning to darken as the sun dipped lower. "I should probably get going," he said a bit reluctantly. He surprised himself by secretly hoping that she would try to stop him.

Emma nodded her head in understanding and stepped back slightly. "It was nice meeting you, Jack."

"Yeah, you too." He smiled lamely at her and then awkwardly shifted past her and towards the door.

_What's wrong with me?_ he wondered. He had never acted that way around women before.

As he moved past the counter and placed his hand on the knob of the door, feeling idiotic and wondering what had gotten into him, he suddenly halted in his tracks when he heard Emma's voice floating back to him.

"Wait," she called, and he turned to see her coming towards him. She smiled almost apologetically at him when she was standing before him. "Listen," she feebly began, loosely hugging her sides, "I don't . . . I don't normally do this but I . . . well," she paused, biting her bottom lip. "I was just wondering if maybe you'd like to get some coffee or something. I could pay . . . ?" she trailed off and looked up, anxiously awaiting his reply.

Jack was surprised, that much he knew was obvious for her to see. Was she really not appalled by his scars? After all, she was the one to ask him out and not the other way around, so there was no way she was simply doing it out of pity.

After a painstaking moment, Jack licked his lips and furrowed his brows. Folding his arms a bit defensively across his chest, he leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice to a whisper. "You're not trying to get in my pants, are you?" he asked seriously, the playful gleam in his eye giving him away.

Emma was unable to hold back a laugh, and she blushed again. God, he loved when she did that.

"No no," she assured quickly, "just in the mood for coffee is all," she smiled.

"I think I can do that," he replied after a moment.

She couldn't help but smile back at him as he did the same to her. "Perfect."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

She hadn't planned on meeting _him_.

She had other plans for that day, other things she had wanted to do. She had absolutely no intentions of meeting him, striking up a conversation and eventually asking him out for coffee. She never . . . _did_ things like that.

She liked to think that she was a conventionalist in the fact that she always waited for men to ask _her _out; never had she reversed that philosophy where _she_ asked them out instead. This was such a new experience for her. She was nervous, but for whatever reason, she just couldn't let this stranger walk away from her. Something about him was incredibly intriguing—she didn't know if it was his quiet, reserved manner, the sound of his voice, or if perhaps it was his scars. Something about him just made her feel _drawn_ to him, like he was some kind of magnet. It was the strangest sensation she had ever felt.

It was also very strange because she hadn't been on a date in quite a while now, so she felt a little out of practice. She hadn't dated much in high school. She had always been the girl with just two or three close friends, the one who'd rather be at home reading the newest novel by her favorite author rather than at the high school football game, sitting with friends on the bleachers and gossiping about the latest breakups. And when she entered college, she had been much the same way, always keeping tucked away in her dorm or curling up in a chair by the window in the common room, reading intently.

When college had ended, she'd eventually found herself in Gotham after having been offered a teaching position at one of the local high schools. She hadn't wanted to move so far away from home, but it was the only teaching position she had been offered, so she gratefully took the job.

With her mother and father back in Colorado, they had been reluctant to see her move so far away, but Emma was secretly excited to move off to the city. She had heard that there were a lot of exciting things that happened in Gotham. Well, that was what the school board had promised anyway, and they really hadn't given a lot of detail on the subject.

She found out soon enough for herself, however, exactly what those "exciting things" really entailed. The city was completely submersed in crime and corrupt city officials. It was just yesterday when she had casually glanced at a tabloid magazine while at the grocery store check out. She had seen an article on the front page that had suggested that some psychiatrist—Jonathan something—kept repeatedly admitting criminals into Arkham Asylum even though they weren't truly insane. The tabloid then went on to suggest that there was something else bigger going on behind the scenes, that there was an ulterior motive for admitting these criminals to Arkham other than for saving them from a death sentence. It was just a tabloid though, something she only ever half glanced at and never took seriously.

But with all bad things aside, she actually did like the city—it had really grown on her during the past four years she had taken up residence there.

And now here she was, asking this complete _stranger _out for coffee, a man whom she had only just met a few minutes ago.

After a moment's hesitation, he had eventually agreed, much to her relief.

After they had dispersed from the bookstore, they walked in the dusky evening light a few blocks down the sidewalk to a nearby coffee shop. It was a fairly nice place, with dark, cherry oak tables and smooth, polished floors. They seated themselves at a small leather booth in the back near the window and talked for the rest of the evening, sipping their drinks. For Emma it had been a pumpkin spice latte, and for Jack it had just been coffee—black, with no cream or sugar.

She had to admit that she found it strange how the two of them were getting along so well. Never in her whole life had she ever been able to hold a conversation so easily. Most men she had gone out to dinner with or dated had seemed to only want to talk about sports or their jobs or their past girlfriends. Dates likes those had always ended a bit awkwardly. There were no whispered promises of "I'll call you" or "see you soon" coming from her mouth.

With Jack, however, it was different. Everything seemed so effortless with him. She didn't feel like she had to force herself to agree with the things he would say, just for the sake of being polite, and nor did she find that she even wanted to do that to begin with.

They shared pleasantries with each other at first. She explained to him that her older brother, Carter, who also lived in Gotham, was a police officer and also her best friend, and that her parents lived in Fort Collins, Colorado, where she had been raised. Jack, in turn, told her that he didn't have any siblings, and then went on to explain that his parents were dead.

He never once mentioned how they died, and Emma was okay with that. She felt it was too soon to pry him with such personal questions anyways.

For the rest of evening they talked quietly. Their conversation eventually went into deeper territory, and soon, Jack was talking animatedly about politics and the corruption of Gotham and the city officials, gesturing with his hands animatedly as he spoke. She listened to him with rapt attention, finding herself immersed and intrigued by his ideas, theories, and opinions. He seemed so passionate about what he spoke of, talked with such conviction and sometimes even fury, his eyes dark and his voice quiet and low, something almost strangely hypnotic about his tone.

She was genuinely sorry when one the workers from behind the counter arrived at their table to announce to them that they were closing shop. Emma immediately pulled up the sleeve of her cardigan to glance at her wristwatch.

"I didn't realize how late it was," she frowned. "I'm sorry for having kept you out so long," she said apologetically. "I hope you didn't have other plans for the night?"

Jack shrugged nonchalantly, still feeling excited over their passionate discussion. He couldn't believe he had just been so open with her, so talkative. He hadn't had a conversation like that in a long, long time.

"It's fine," he replied easily.

She slid out of the booth and he did the same, both of them walking towards the door. When they stepped outside, they were met with a noticeably cooler breeze, the sky a dark shade of midnight blue with not a cloud in sight. Emma hugged her sweater tighter to her waist and turned towards Jack. "I had a really great time."

Jack nodded in agreement and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, running his tongue absently at the corner of his lips.

Emma looked away for a moment, searching for how she wanted to phrase her next sentence as Jack stared at her. "I'd really like to see you again," she said finally, staring up at him with a thoughtful expression in her eyes.

"Would you?" he asked half playfully, half-seriously as he turned his full body towards her, crossing his arms over his chest.

Emma smiled. "Yeah, I would."

Jack couldn't help but smile back at her, if only just a little, the corner of his mouth curving upwards into a pleased smirk.

"What did you have in mind?" He didn't know what possessed him to say such a thing, not that he hadn't enjoyed spending time with Emma, it was just that he hadn't expected for _her_ to enjoy her time with _him _so much. He was surprised that she wanted to see him again. He had thoroughly enjoyed their conversation, it just hadn't dawned on him that she had enjoyed it so much, too.

Emma opened her mouth to reply, but then faltered a bit, unsure of how she wanted to raise her question. She couldn't believe she was going to ask him out again, but she _really_ wanted to see him more of him. She still couldn't figure out what it was about him that appealed to her so much, but she didn't care. She just . . . _liked _him. He had a certain passion to him, an intensity in his gaze and in his speech, something of the likes she had never seen in a man before.

Jack was handsome though, too. He was tall and lanky with unruly blond curls and broad shoulders and an attractive smile. And the scars on either side of his mouth, which some might have found repulsive, only seemed to add to his attractiveness. It was like they were some kind of exotic, foreign feature. She liked that he was different in that aspect.

She only hoped she wasn't being too forward with her next request. She was going against everything she had ever known, all the rules she had ever been taught. She couldn't help but think, though, that her _mom _would definitely approve, even if Emma herself didn't.

She had never gotten along much with her mother when she was growing up. They never truly fought with one another, but they had many disagreements over certain issues. Her mother had always been very rambunctious and outgoing, having been raised and spoiled by wealthy parents in Southern California. She had always disproved of the fact that Emma spent most of her time in her room, reading books or studying when her mother insisted that she go out with friends and "socialize" more.

Her mother, Alice, had also been quite the party girl, occasionally coming home wasted after a night out on the town with her girlfriends.

Emma's father had somewhat of the same way. David would spend hours at the pool hall with friends, smoking cigars and drinking cheap whiskey. He never came home drunk, but he always smelt strongly of stale cigars and a scent that was distinctly his own. He wasn't as loud and gregarious as his wife, but they somehow still managed to get along.

David was mostly reserved and kept to himself. When he wasn't at the pool hall, he was usually in his study, sitting behind his big desk filled with papers and books and gently biting on the tip of his glasses as he read. He was_ always_ reading, it seemed. History seemed to be his subject of choice, but he often liked to dabble in physics too, if he was in the mood. He was very knowledgeable on those subjects, and Emma felt proud to have him as a father.

With her parent's differing personalities, she was never able to understand how they were able to get along with each other so well. Sure, they had their fights, but for the most part they were affectionate and talked to each other often. Emma had secretly always thought that her mother had only stuck around because of her father's money, but she would never dare voice such an opinion aloud. They were still together, so she had nothing to worry about.

Facing Jack, she let out a breath before speaking. _Here goes nothing,_ she thought.

"The Autumn Fair is setting up in the city this Friday," she began hesitantly, "I'd really enjoy it if you came."

She watched his face closely after she had offered her proposition. Jack immediately liked the idea that she didn't ask him to some stuffy restaurant where tuxes were required—he didn't go for that kind of thing. He was definitely a man of simple taste. He didn't need to go out to dinner at some ridiculously expensive restaurant, nor did he need someone to prove their love for him by buying him fancy things. He liked the idea of going to the fair. He couldn't remember the last time he had done something so spontaneous like that. He'd never do such a thing on his own, but with Emma the event could perhaps be kind of entertaining.

"I think I can do that," he replied with a smirk, cleverly referring to their conversation at the bookstore earlier that evening.

Emma did the same, smiling. "Perfect."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Jack stood in front of the mirror in his tiny, cramped bathroom, the front of his thighs pressed up against the dark blue mottled countertop. His torso was leant over the sink as he moved his face closer to the mirror, turning his head to the side as he attempted a close shave. Firmly grasping his razor, he drew it downwards along his jaw line and expertly curled it around his scars, deftly maneuvering the object so it hugged the curves there. He had been doing the ritual for years, for how long he couldn't remember, but he could shave in little under five minutes, he had become so practiced at shaving around his scars. Once he was done, he rinsed and slathered his face in some icy cool aftershave, sighing heavily as he let the bottle drop into the sink.

He picked up the black, long-sleeved shirt that was lying on the closed seat of the toilet and slipped it on over his head. He then ran his hands through his hair at a poor attempt to tame it. He had never really given much thought to his hair, and it had always hung just below his ears for as long as he could remember—except for that one time when his mom had given him a buzz cut. At least that's what he thought he _remembered_.

Jack's past was a puzzle that he couldn't quite put together. It felt as if he was missing a few puzzle pieces, and without those pieces, he couldn't discern what the picture, his _life_, was supposed to look like. It was one of those key pieces, too, the pieces that went smack dab in the middle of the puzzle. A small section of the puzzle was forever missing; gone, forgotten.

It just so happened that the "small section of the puzzle" happened to be a huge chunk of his past. Nineteen years of it, in fact, all of which he couldn't remember. Any memories before the age of nineteen were hazy, his mind often drawing a complete blank, much to his frustration.

It was a strange thing, not being able to remember the past. There were so many memories he always thought that he would have liked to reminisce on—but he couldn't possibly recall any. It was sometimes lonely, too, not being able to remember what his life used to be like, the things he used to do, say, the people he used to know. He could vaguely recall words and phrases, and sometimes even an image or two . . . but the reflections were always too blurry or incoherent to fully grasp onto. Each day it got harder and harder to remember, his memories slipping between his fingers like fine grains of sand.

He used to remember how he got his scars, those horrible lacerations that stretched his cheeks, but he didn't anymore. He'd lied about the story so many times—purposely blocked it from his memory even—that he didn't even remember the _real_ story anymore. At first it was by choice, but now it was by default. He couldn't remember even if he wanted to.

It didn't help that he didn't have many tangible objects to recall on, either. All of the possessions he had ever owned had never been able to draw any memories from the past for him. Personal possessions meant nothing. He had always been content with simply the clothes on his back and little else. From his past, he had simply a small pocket watch, (a gift from his father, perhaps?) and an old deck of cards. He didn't know why he had bothered to keep the two objects through the years, but he did. He couldn't really stand to part with them.

When he contemplated the matter of his past, Jack gradually began to realize how freeing it was, not being able to remember anything. He realized that he didn't have anything holding him back, didn't have any guilt, remorse, sadness, or past attachments holding him back. He didn't _feel _anything. The past was an empty hole. He could do anything. He could _be _anything.

In the end, he didn't care about his past. It was gone, and it obviously wasn't coming back. He didn't see the point in trying to relive memories that weren't going to return.

Besides, did he really want to remember how he got his scars? Was such a memory like that even worth trying to recall? What if his past was miserable, like he had always made himself believe? Was there really a point in trying to remember the pain?

_No_, he thought, fixing a black, leather-banded watch on his wrist, he supposed not. He briefly glanced up into the mirror above the sink, stopping mid-movement to stare at his reflection.

Forgotten memories aside, Jack began to realize that he hadn't felt so . . . so _strange_ in a long time. He wouldn't call it anxiousness, because he definitely wasn't nervous, but there was an odd sort of calmed excitement that he felt—if such an oxymoron of emotions were even possible. This was his first real date in almost four years, his last date being that of the turned-down marriage proposal. He honestly didn't know what to expect this time around with Emma.

He'd probably just entertain her for a while; enjoy her company until she got tired of him. He wasn't really cut out for this whole "dating" thing, anyway. The thought honestly repulsed him, but maybe that was because his past encounters had tainted his outlook. He couldn't remember a time when he had truly enjoyed dating. His mind was always occupied with other thoughts and ideas. Sometimes it got so bad he couldn't even engage in conversation. His thoughts would take over and tear through his mind, and he could do nothing but wait for the hurricane to pass. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it scared the shit of out him. All rational sense would leave him completely, and illogical and scary ideas would take place instead. When it came down to it, the_ last_ thing he wanted to have to worry about was whether he remembered the "one-week anniversary" or whatever date it was that girls thought it was important that guys remember.

Jack figured that as long as he avoided what had happened last time, he'd have no problems at all. All he wanted was to avoid another disaster, another broken promise, another _lie_. He _hated _when people lied to him.

_"We'll be together forever, Jack, I promise."_

And now she was gone, married to that rich Italian guy, probably.

_Figures._

_Not like it matters anymore, _he thought to himself with a smirk, he didn't want _her_ anymore, anyway. His passion for her had died the moment she had told him the truth—the truth that she had only dated him because she was _sorry_ for him. He couldn't help but scoff. He didn't want people to feel sorry for him. He got along well enough with his damn scars and he sure as hell didn't need other people's sympathy. He found it so incredibly . . . _pathetic_.

What he couldn't help but note about Emma, though, was the fact that she acted like she didn't even seem to notice his scars, something he had found a bit odd at first, but was now starting to like. More often than not, he would catch people staring in aberrant horror at his face. While he was used to it, he couldn't deny that sometimes it bothered him, all the unnecessary attention that it garnered, the hushed whispers, and the blatant, open-mouthed stares. Over the years he had become accustomed to such attention, but he still sometimes felt angry over the fact that people would gawk at him the way they did. He didn't want their pity.

On the other hand, there also was a side of him that _craved_ the attention, basked in it, even. _Let them stare_, he would think with a smirk, _all the better for them_.

There was something absolutely _exhilarating_ about being so different from everyone else, knowing that you stood out from the crowd in such a blatant, macabre way. He secretly craved the attention, found that he even_ needed_ it at times, although he didn't quite understand why. There were a lot of things he didn't understand about himself.

Licking his lips, Jack gave one final, scrutinizing glance in the mirror and then ambled back into the bedroom. He grabbed his wallet from the dresser and checked it for cash before stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans.

He still couldn't believe he was doing this. It all felt kind of surreal to him. It was hard to comprehend that Emma had even asked him out on a date in the first place. He didn't know what she saw in him, but she must have liked it, whatever it was.

He didn't let himself dwell on the subject for long. As cute as he thought Emma was, she'd get bored of him quickly, see that he wasn't really all that interesting and they'd both move on. This would be their last date, he was sure. Guys like him didn't deserve girls like her. And as much as he hated thinking that, he couldn't deny that the realization wasn't true.

Outside his apartment building, he hailed a cab and instructed the driver to head towards the park. When they neared, he immediately noticed that it was packed, cars lined up on all sides of the street and the flow of traffic had decidedly come to a permanent halt.

"Damn," the driver muttered. "Looks like I'm gonna be here a while." He ran a hand wearily over his jaw and then searched in his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. "I'm afraid this is where you get out, pal."

Jack wordlessly paid for his cab fare before stepping out into the middle of the street, winding his way through the maze of immobile, honking cars. Eventually he stepped onto the sidewalk and then the grass, people crowding and talking around him as they went to purchase their tickets. Jack stood off to the side of the black, wrought-iron entrance gate to the park, searching for Emma.

After they had exchanged phone numbers the other night, they had agreed to meet at six, and with a glance at his watch, Jack realized that he was right on time.

Jack was just starting to feel antsy when he finally spotted her. She was further on down the sidewalk, apparently looking for him as well.

He absently licked his lips as he approached, people brushing past his shoulders as he maneuvered through the crowd, eyes only on her. Her back was facing him and she didn't even see him coming. He smiled when he was hovering right behind her and she hadn't noticed. Jack briefly inhaled her scent and closed his eyes for just a quick, fleeting moment before whispering into the shell of her ear.

"_Boo_."

Gasping, Emma immediately spun around. "Jack," she breathed, relaxing when she realized it was only him.

He grinned at her in response and furtively did a quick onceover of her. She was wearing a teal, long-sleeved shirt and her hair was curled in loose waves, resting just above the small swell of her chest. Her jeans hugged her hips nicely, and her shoes were simple black flats. He thought she looked pretty.

She smiled up at him warmly. "Should we make our way inside?"

He nodded his head and they maneuvered their way through the throng of people towards the ticket booth. Emma had offered to pay, but Jack adamantly insisted that it was a date and that "the men always pay." She finally relented with a playful roll of her eyes.

The fair was set up right in the heart of Gotham in Towson Park, much like that of Central Park in New York City but not nearly as renowned. Purple and orange lights were lazily strung the bare trees that lined the sidewalk, adding a splash of glowing, Halloween color to the otherwise dark gray sky above.

Faded gold, brown, and cranberry red leaves were scattered across the sidewalk, the wind making them scrape against the concrete noisily. Brightly lit Jack-o-lanterns were dotted throughout the grass while small children darted around them, chasing each other in a game of tag.

As Jack and Emma made their way down the sidewalk, loud chatter and laughter filtering through the air, the two of them talked and pointed out different things to each other. Jack was already feeling at ease despite not having done something like this in such a long time. He had never felt uncomfortable or awkward around women before, so he didn't find it too much of a surprise that they were getting along so well. He did, however, find it surprising how much he was _already_ starting to enjoy himself and his time with her. She was so shy, a little bit bashful, even, yet Jack found it rather endearing and almost . . . _cute_ how she seemed to try so hard to initiate conversation, to get him to talk. He could tell that she wasn't normally the type of woman to do things like this, so in a way, he almost felt flattered that she had chosen him, of all people, to pursue. The idea of it, even despite himself, almost made him feel . . . excited, to a certain degree. No one had ever really shown interest in him before, not like this._ He_ had always been the first one to make a move, so the fact that _she_ was the one who was doing it this time around seemed to make things all the more interesting. It meant that she was genuinely into him. She wasn't doing it because she felt sorry for him.

As colorful, flashing lights lit up the landscape, the vivid colors and sounds of the carnival rides were finally coming into view beyond the trees. There were small children and teenagers screaming on the Tilt-A-Whirl as it spun in circles, and beyond that, other fun, classic rides were set up in the distance.

As the sidewalk curved through the park, the two of them stopped at all the booths along the way, Jack amusing Emma with his failed attempts at trying to win her a stuffed animal. He finally succeeded at winning the ring around the bottle game, but instead of receiving a stuffed bear like he had expected, he was rewarded with a goldfish in a plastic bag of water instead.

"Jack, I can't take care of a goldfish," Emma laughed, tears gathering at the corner of her eyes. He immediately found himself laughing with her, knowing from an earlier conversation at the coffee shop that Emma was terrible when it came to caring for pets.

The two of them finally managed to pawn it off to a small, seven year-old boy who thanked them gratuitously and told them that he had been praying for a gold fish for his whole life.

Emma had then tried to convince Jack to sing karaoke up on the stage where people sat in metal fold-up chairs beneath the orange tarp, waiting to take their turn. She had even pleaded with him with her best puppy dog eyes, but he had determinedly resisted. Teasingly, he informed her that his voice would put The Beatles to shame, and he just couldn't bear to embarrass all the other contestants like that, if for their own sakes.

The evening wore on and the day finally turned into night. The sky was now pitch black overhead with multicolored lights and Jack-o-Lanterns lighting up the dark while a cool, autumn breeze whispered through the trees and dropped leaves onto the grass and pavement. The air was filled with smoke as the carnival rides creaked and moved, pleasant chatter filling the air.

The smell of roasted peanuts and other fried foods lured them both to make their way over to a section of the park that was reserved for eating. Emma followed Jack to a wooden picnic table in the grass after they had both ordered vanilla ice-cream cones and split a funnel cake.

They talked for an hour there, simply sitting at the picnic table in the dark under the lighted trees, laughing and smiling, both wanting to explore more of the park, but both unable to cease their conversation.

Jack convinced Emma that he wanted to know more about her, despite her modest protests of "I'm really not that interesting," and he eventually won out in the end. Emma relented by divulging most of her life to him while he listened interestedly. She told him of how she had grown up in Fort Collins, Colorado, and then moved to Gotham when she was twenty.

She eventually told him of how when she was a teenager she had wanted to become an actress. She reminisced of the time when she had once gone out for an audition, much to her parents chagrin. She explained in detail how the casting directors had laughed amusedly at her and told her that she lacked the self-confidence of a leading role and was much too shy. She then told Jack how she had burst into tears directly afterwards and vowed to herself that she would one day become an actress—just so she could prove to those stuck-up casting directors that she _could_ do it. But of course she never did. Her passion for acting eventually died when she realized that she really was too shy. She wouldn't have done well in the limelight anyway. Emma laughed as she explained to Jack how she pictured herself on stage, accepting her first Academy Award and blushing like a fool, how her face would be strawberry red because all eyes would be on her.

Jack had grinned amusedly at that, leaning both of his elbows on the table so he could be closer to her. He was so intrigued by her bashfulness, thought it was cute, even. She was a sweet, innocent girl, such a deliberately stark contrast to himself. He kind of liked that.

While he was generally quiet and kept mostly to himself, he could definitely be brazen and bold, should the situation call for it. He wasn't afraid to hurt other people's feelings and always spoke the truth, no matter how bad or hard it would hurt. He didn't censor or sugarcoat his words. Jack said things at face value, even if sometimes the things he said didn't quite make sense. He was always one step ahead of everybody, he liked to think. Ahead of the curve, perhaps.

While Emma quietly talked on, Jack found himself content to just sit and listen. He didn't really know why he enjoyed listening to her so much, but she just seemed to have a certain genuineness about her that he was strangely attracted to.

Once their conversation had finally begun to ebb, Emma sighed, her and Jack's cheeks both sore from smiling so much.

As they threw away their trash and strolled through the park once again, Jack suddenly and quite confidently pulled Emma's hand into his own, grasping it firmly. He didn't know what had possessed him to do such a thing, mentally cursed himself for doing so right after, in fact, but he couldn't deny that he liked it, liked the feel of her warm hand entrapped in his own. Her small, pleased smile did not escape his notice.

As they were walking along the sidewalk, Jack couldn't help but point out to Emma that one of the Frankenstein Jack-o-lanterns looked like a bad impression of Elvis Presley. Emma was laughing amusedly at his observation when a voice suddenly called out, startling her.

"Miss Layne!" the voice shouted, making both Jack and Emma turn to see someone running towards them.

"Marcus?" Emma asked as he neared, her voice belaying her confusion. Jack looked questioningly at her but she only stared straight ahead.

"Miss Layne," he said again, now standing in front of her and slightly out of breath, smiling broadly.

"Marcus, what are you doing here?" Emma smiled at him, surprised, while Jack instinctively stepped closer to her, their hands still intertwined between them. He didn't really know why he had done that, but he didn't like the way Marcus was so blatantly eyeing her up and down, as if he were undressing her with his eyes.

He looked to be only about nineteen or twenty, with a strong jaw and black, shifting eyes. His hair was shaved in a buzz cut and a silver chain dangled from the back pocket of his jeans. An air of obvious confidence seemed to surround him, and he stood at nearly the same height as Jack, his head tilted upwards slightly, chin jutting out. Jack disliked him immediately.

"I was out," he began, his voice surprisingly low and deep, "and I thought I'd see what was going on here." He casually stuffed one of his hands into the pocket of his jeans as he spoke. "You look great," he added as an afterthought, his voice so low it sounded nearly like a rumble.

Emma shuffled a bit uncomfortably and tried to offer him a small smile. "Thank you," she replied quietly, her eyes briefly shifting to the leaves on the sidewalk.

Marcus smiled back, clearly pleased with her reaction. "Hey, listen," he began, "I was hoping that I could maybe get your help with what we talked about the other day."

Jack pretended not to be confused, but his eyebrows drew together into a frown regardless.

"Oh . . . oh, of course," she replied. "We can work on it sometime on Monday." She gave him a half smile while silently willing for him to go away. She could feel Jack's eyes on the two of them, watchful and curious.

Marcus grinned again, nodding. "Yeah, yeah that'd be great." He straightened his shoulders then and made a jerk with his head. "Who's this?" he asked, finally tearing his eyes off Emma long enough to glance at Jack. "Is this your _dad_?"

He spoke the word with such condescension and had made it painfully obvious for the three of them that Marcus already knew the answer to his question. Emma, in turn, tried not to wince while Jack only stared, working his mouth in an irritated manner, eyes unnaturally dark.

"Actually, this is my friend, Jack," she introduced.

Jack was grateful when Marcus simply just nodded his head and didn't offer his hand. He wouldn't have shaken it anyway.

"I see," was all Marcus replied with, his eyes studying the scars on Jack's face with unhidden aversion. "Well, listen, I better get going." He paused and tore his eyes off Jack. "Again though, you look _really_ fantastic tonight." He flashed Emma a charming grin while she politely thanked him and said goodbye. "See you on Monday." He gave one last look at Jack, narrowing his eyes before turning away.

Once he was out of earshot, Jack finally spoke. "Who's the Casanova?" he frowned. He had hoped his voice would come across as playful, but he realized he sounded more annoyed than anything.

Emma only laughed lightly and moved closer to Jack, her hand still tightly intertwined with his. "He's just a high school student from my Eng—"

"He's a _student_?" Jack interrupted incredulously. He stopped in his tracks. "He looks like he's twenty."

"Nineteen, actually," she admitted a bit hesitantly. "He's failed . . . a couple of times."

"Failed at _life_," Jack muttered to himself, moving forward once more.

Emma laughed and playfully nudged his shoulder with her own. "Actually, he's quite an intelligent student. He's gotten straight A's in all of his other classes except for English, which he's had to repeat three times. I feel like I've failed him as a teacher but . . . the assignments really aren't that hard . . . ." she trailed off uncertainly.

"Believe me, it's not you," he quickly interjected. "If anything, this—this _Marcus_," he said the boy's name with disdain, "keeps failing your class on purpose because it's obvious he _likes_ you."

She furrowed her brows together and smiled as if the idea were absurd. "I don't believe that. He's just really friendly is all," she shrugged.

_You think so?_ Jack wanted to retort, but he sighed and let the conversation die instead.

Emma sighed too. Inside, she knew that Jack was right, it was just strange for her to hear someone else say aloud what she had always thought to herself.

She had started to suspect it ever since the day Marcus had brought her flowers and given them to her in front of the whole class during his senior year, declaring that she was "the best teacher ever." And now that she thought about it, for as good looking as the boy was, she had always found it odd how he brushed off—blatantly _ignored_, even, other girls who would try to talk with him. It was obvious they were crushing on him, yet he didn't even offer them a second glance.

He'd stay after school on the days that he didn't have sports practice so that he could help Emma clean up the classroom and talk with her. He had also, more than once, begged her to come to the home-field football games so she could watch him play. Emma had found his antics flattering and cute at first, but after a while he had gotten progressively more persistent, asking if he could come to her house so she could privately tutor him. She politely told him no, telling him she didn't have the time, but was more than happy to prescribe another student who could help him with any problems he may of had. In truth, she really did have the time, but it was out of the question for him to come to her house. She wouldn't allow it. She feared that if he knew where she lived, he would stop by frequently and without request, and she definitely didn't want him doing _that_.

Pushing these thoughts aside, Emma shook her head and focused her attention on Jack and the good time they were having.

The two of them spent the rest of the evening keeping occupied by riding on all the rides, participating in a pumpkin carving contest, (where Jack had surprised Emma by being very dexterous with a knife), and playing carnival games. At one point in night, Jack had even convinced Emma to ride the Ferris wheel, which she vehemently refused to at first because she was afraid of heights. Eventually though, Jack succeeded in gently coaxing her to get on, promising that he wasn't going to let anything happen to her. She spent the whole ride hugging his waist, shaking with nervousness, while Jack smiled into her hair, wrapping his long arms around her and holding her tight while he pointed out to her all the buildings in the distance.

They stayed at the fair until the park finally came to a close at midnight. When the police began ushering people out of the park and as the rides began to shut off, Jack realized that calling it a night and heading home was the _last _thing he wanted to do.

Smiling to himself, he took Emma's hand and they left the park as the crowd dispersed around them. They walked down the darkened streets of the city for half an hour until they had stepped outside of the city limits and were now in a small, grassy field behind one of the elementary schools. Jack pushed Emma on the swings until his arms were tired and her throat was sore from laughter.

The two of them finally settled down in the tall, untamed grass behind the playground, laying on their backs and staring up at the stars without a care in the world. They talked animatedly as they stared at the sky, laughing and brushing arms as they lay next to each other like two love-struck teenagers. He pointed out all the constellations to her while Emma listened attentively, impressed by his knowledge.

It was only when the rain began to fall did they both reluctantly haul themselves up out of the grass. Emma pulled out her cell phone and called a cab as they waited on the curb in front of the school, shielded by the overhead drive-thru. As they waited, Emma suddenly tugged on Jack's hand, pulling him up from the curb so he was standing in front of her as rain fell down all around them, soaking their clothes. He grinned at her somewhat confusedly.

"Would you care for a dance, sir?" she tried seriously, staring up at him with the flickering of a smile. She felt like such a teenager, but she had always wanted to dance in the rain. It was something cheesy and straight out of a romance novel she was sure, but she didn't care.

Apparently, neither did Jack. His response to her question was to tuck one arm behind his back and then bow at the waist to her, as if the two of them were at a royal ball. He looked up at her through the wet curls that were spilling onto his forehead and offered her his hand.

Emma giggled as she accepted, and Jack grabbed hold of her hand and placed his other at the small of her back, pulling her close to him. They started out seriously at first, trying hard not to giggle, but eventually gave up all together. Clumsily, they danced in the rain beneath the black sky and the flickering lamplights of the school parking lot, laughing the whole time and tripping over each other's shoes. They splashed in the puddles as they waltzed, Emma giggling when Jack attempted to dip her but ultimately failing and sending them both sprawling into the wet grass.

Jack laughed freely then, such a genuinely pleased and carefree laugh that made Emma's heart race.

He hadn't acted so carefree and childish in _years_, not that he could remember anyway. He felt drunk—pleasantly so. He was completely intoxicated and overwhelmed in the feeling of the moment. The emotion wasn't all too foreign to him—he had experienced nearly the same thing with Mandy—but with Emma, it was something entirely different and new. It somehow felt more . . . more real. He was actually having fun, and Emma obviously was too.

When their laughter died down and they were simply lying in the grass next to each other, he took the opportunity to study her closely. He could see the raindrops on her lashes, her clothes soaking wet and clinging to her body. She was out of breath from their dancing, her lips parted as droplets of rain dripped down the column of her throat.

He couldn't help but stare at her lips as the rain continued to pour down around them and as she stared back at his, both of them suddenly realizing how close they were.

Jack had the sudden urge to lean in and kiss her, brush his lips against hers and just leave them there. He wanted to just do_ something_ . . . but he never got the chance when the taxi cab pulled into view, honking loudly and disrupting the moment.

They both snapped out of their trances, and Jack helped Emma out of the grass and before they two of them hurried through the rain towards the cab. Jack held open the door for her as she got in and he quickly climbed in after her.

The cab arrived at Jack's apartment first since it was closer. Before he got out, Emma thanked him for the good time. They shared a small embrace, but then Emma surprised both herself _and_ him by inviting him to dinner next Saturday at her house.

Jack honestly didn't know what to think about that and was dumbstruck for a moment. It was true that he hadn't expected to have such a fun evening with Emma, didn't expect _her_ to have such a fun evening with _him_, either, so he was surprised to say the least that she wanted to see him again. This was the _third_ time she was asking him out.

As he looked at her, he noticed that she was blushing like crazy. He really had to admire her persistence, he thought, especially since he knew she wasn't the type of person who usually initiated dates and asked men out.

She must have seen something really special in him . . . or something. Despite his initial reluctance, he surprised himself by agreeing.

Third time was the charm, right?


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

She couldn't believe how incredibly anxious she was.

It had been nearly a week since she had last been with Jack at the fair, and all day at school she had been a bundle of nerves. The two of them were having dinner together later that night and she couldn't stop thinking about it.

The kids were taking a test in class today, which left Emma to sit quietly behind her desk and attempt to read a book. No matter how hard she tried, however, she found that she couldn't concentrate, eventually realizing that she had been reading the same page for the past half hour. She sighed gently and closed her book, setting it back down on her desk.

Looking up, she saw that all of her students' heads were still bowed, focusing on their work as they filled in answers to their essay questions.

When it was a quarter till three, she quietly began gathering up all her books and papers that she needed to take home with her, sliding them into her shoulder bag.

When the bell finally rang, signifying the end of the school day, the high school students eagerly shuffled out of their seats, gathering up their backpacks and placing their tests on her desk before leaving. Marcus, as usual, was last to gather his things, clearly taking his time.

Emma was impatient for him to pack up so she could leave, something he seemed to take notice of. He slung his backpack over one shoulder and ambled over to her as she finished gathering the tests on her desk.

"I think I did really well this time," he said conversationally, watching her closely as he handed her his test.

"I'm glad," Emma replied. She offered him a small, half-hearted smile.

When she looked down again to search for her keys, he spoke. "I think all that stuff you explained to me on Monday really helped. We should do that again sometime, you know, with the final exam coming up and everything . . . ." He swallowed hard as he watched her, watching as she focused all of her attention on locating her keys. She looked anxious today, Marcus noted, something that struck him as odd since she was normally so calm and collected. "Is uh, is something bothering you? You look nervous or something."

She sighed heavily, still not having found what she was looking for, and distractedly looked up at him, her brows furrowed. "What? Oh, I'm just eager to get home is all."

Marcus watched her as she continued her search, opening drawers and sifting through papers on the desk. He couldn't help as his jaw clenched at her statement, and he tried to feign nonchalance instead. "You got plans tonight?"

Emma frowned. She was used to Marcus being intrusive and asking her personal questions, but today he was especially irking her. She tried to be as polite as possible.

"I do, yes."

He was quick to respond. "Who with, _John_?"

Emma paused in her search and looked up at him. "It's Jack," she clarified, perhaps a little too sharply.

"Right."

They stared at each other evenly for several seconds, Emma very confused by Marcus's behavior, when he finally spoke again. "Your keys are under those papers." He nodded in the direction of a forgotten stack of papers near the edge of her desk.

Sighing in relief, she swiped them quickly, the metal keys scratching against the wood.

"Thank you," she breathed. She picked her bag up and slung it over her shoulder. As Marcus followed her out of the room, he couldn't stop his eyes from wandering to her backside as she moved. He quickly averted his gaze when she turned around to lock the door to her classroom.

The hallway was already mostly empty, all of the students clearly eager to start the weekend as soon as possible. Golden rays of afternoon sunlight streamed in through the glass double doors of the school and made the tiled floor gleam. Lockers slammed from farther on down the hall and laughter could be heard from outside.

"Have a nice weekend, Marcus." Emma looked him in the eye before turning to walk away. She was stopped short, though, when he suddenly grabbed her wrist.

For a split second, she was actually scared, her heart stopping mid-beat. Marcus grinned lopsidedly at her as she turned around, clearly surprised. She actually looked _scared_ of him. _Oh, how cute._

"What?" he asked innocently, "No hug goodbye?"

"Marcus I really have to go—"

"Oh come on," he grinned, "we'll make it quick." Before she could further object, he pulled her to him and wrapped his large, strong arms around her, hugging her to his chest. Emma tentatively hugged him back, having never felt more uncomfortable in her life. Marcus was so much bigger than her—bigger than Jack, even, and his strength was disconcerting. He stood a good foot taller than her and she could feel the taut muscles of his body, courtesy of his countless hours on the football field. His belt buckle bit into her stomach and she bit back a whimper of discomfort, wanting more than ever to pull away.

They had only been hugging for hardly more than two seconds when Emma suddenly felt his nails scrape lightly through her shirt against the small of her back. She hastily pulled away and tried to hide her discomfort. Marcus could see right through her façade and knew he had flustered her. _Good. _

"See you on Monday," she said curtly, briskly turning away from him as he waved after her. He grinned to himself as he eased his frame up against the side of a nearby locker, watching her leave.

He was going to have her.

He knew it was wrong, knew that teacher/student relations were strictly prohibited, but he had wanted her from the moment he had first set eyes on her. Over the past few years, he had even grown to _love_ her. He had kept all the homework notes she had written for him, cut out all the pictures of her from the school yearbook, and took unrequited pleasure in the moments when they would brush arms or share any sort of physical contact, no matter how small.

Whenever he would talk of his infatuation with his friends, they would all laugh awkwardly and call him a freak. Some of them told him that he was "obsessed" and said things like, "Damn, Marcus, that's fucking _weird_," but he didn't care. He _knew_ he was obsessed.

He didn't purposely fail four years of English just for the hell of it.

His parents had been suspicious of his obsessive attraction to his English teacher and had even tried to get him to seek counseling for it, but his blind rage and adamant refusal to the idea caused his parents to drop the subject matter altogether. They didn't want to draw any unwanted attention to the situation, so they simply pretended not to notice.

_Mom and dad don't even know the half of it_, he thought with a smirk. Nobody, and he meant _nobody_, knew quite how obsessed he was. No one knew that he jacked himself off every night to thoughts of her, no one knew of his daydreams where he would pin Emma to the floor and fuck her for all she was worth. No one knew he followed her car home after school. No one fucking _knew_.

God, he needed her. He couldn't wait any longer.

He had to have her, and he was going to do whatever it took to get her.

_Whatever. It. Took. _

**x**

Once Emma reached her car, she placed her bag in the backseat and then quickly sped off, determined not to get stuck behind the school buses like she usually did. She needed to make a quick trip to the grocery store before heading home so she could pick up a few things for her dinner with Jack that evening.

Thinking about her impending date made her stomach churn with nervous excitement. She still couldn't believe she had actually invited him to her _home_. She hardly knew him, after all. He had shared with her some of the basic information about his life, but that seemed hardly enough to uncover the enigmatic mystery that was Jack. He was so cryptic and quiet, very reserved and yet passionate and energized when sparked with the right subject. Emma was so eager to learn more about him, get to know him better, but was also rather uneasy. It wasn't because she didn't trust Jack, but was simply because she had never done anything like this before. She was so out of her comfort zone. It wasn't like her to ask men out on dates, especially to dates at her house.

She didn't know why she had done that, now that she came to really think about it. She _could _have just invited him to a restaurant or something, but she supposed she had invited him to her house because she had been so nervous and it was the first thing that had come to mind. She'd probably feel more at ease at home, anyway. She hoped Jack would feel the same way.

At the grocery store, Emma picked out a loaf of Italian bread, two packages of shredded parmesan and mozzarella cheese, and a boneless chicken breast. After she had paid for her food at the checkout and was exiting the store, she couldn't help but notice that one of the students from Gotham Heights was leaning against the brick wall by the vending machines. He visibly paled when he saw her and quickly took off into the parking lot and got into his car. Emma frowned at this and shifted the plastic bags from one hand to the other. _That was odd._

When she arrived at home, she put her items in the kitchen before taking a quick shower and blow-drying her hair, eventually stepping into some fresher clothes. When she checked the clock, it was almost 4:15, leaving her forty-five minutes to prepare for dinner and make sure the house was ready.

Dinner was quick and easy to make and was simmering on the stove while she went about the house, picking up random objects and trying to make sure the place look presentable. Her one-story home was rather small since she was living off of a meager teacher's salary, so it was fairly easy to clean up. She had completed most of her housework before leaving for school in the morning anyway, knowing that she wouldn't have much time to do it when she got back.

In the kitchen, she switched the burner on the stove to 'low' and then vacuumed the living room. When the vacuum was returned back to the closet and not a thing was out of place, she sighed restlessly and wandered back into the kitchen. While adding a few of her favorite spices to the meal cooking on the stove, she nearly jumped out of her skin when the doorbell rang.

She smiled to herself as she made her way to the door, pulling it open.

Jack stood there, dressed in dark jeans, a black, formal blazer, and a simple dark gray button-up shirt underneath. His wild, blond hair was tousled from the autumn breeze and his brown eyes were warm.

"Jack, hi." She smiled as she opened the door wider for him. "Come in."

He smiled as he stepped inside while Emma closed the door behind him. When she turned, he was looking at her in amusement.

"Cute apron," he smirked, his voice low and deep.

Emma suddenly looked down and felt her cheeks reddening. "Oh." She laughed and quickly brought the apron up over her head to remove it, having forgotten it was even there. Swallowing, she tried to fight off the excited butterflies in her stomach. She felt like she was in high school again.

"Did you have a hard time finding the place?" she asked.

Jack shook his head as he removed his jacket. "Your directions were perfect." He locked eyes with her and grinned again, Emma smiling to herself as she turned away, leading him to the kitchen.

"I hope you like risotto, is that okay . . . ?"

"I love it," was all he said, and Emma nodded her head in response and went to the stove as he stood in the middle of her small kitchen, looking around with interest.

"I just have to finish cutting these vegetables and then we can eat." She looked over her shoulder at him and caught his eye.

"Do you need help with anything?" His voice was smooth and low, and Emma couldn't help but savor the sound of it.

"You can stir the risotto, if you want."

Jack licked his lips and went over to stand in front of the stove. He carefully stirred the meal while Emma stood next to him in front of the counter and cut fresh cucumbers for the salad. They talked absently for a few minutes, Emma asking how his day had been and him responding by telling her an elaborate but entertaining story about something that had happened to him at the chemical plant he worked at.

He was watching Emma's movements closely as he talked, his tongue occasionally running along the inside of his cheek. "So then he went over and—hey, you're doing it wrong," he suddenly announced, interrupting his own story.

Confused, Emma looked up at him and met his gaze. "Beg pardon?"

Jack smiled at her. "You're uh, you're using the knife wrong. You'll hurt yourself if you do it that way. Here, let me show you." He moved behind her then, pressing his body flush against her backside and taking her hand that still held the knife, making sure her fingers were curled around it just right. With his hand over hers, he guided the knife in her hands in just the right fashion, slicing easily through the cucumber. "See? This way you won't accidentally slice off a finger or something." He grinned from behind her as Emma murmured her thanks.

She was silent as he helped her, and he could hear her breathing start to get heavy. He was pressed up against her intimately, the two of them slowing their movements with the knife and now simply reveling in the heady moment of enjoying the feel of each other's presence. Jack swallowed as he felt his eyelids start to get heavy. He let out a slow, quiet breath and wanted so badly to put his hands on either of her hips and guide her back against him, to just—just press a little closer . . . .

And he would have, had the timer on the stove not went off.

The two of them broke away immediately, Emma flushing with embarrassment and Jack simply looking a bit disappointed. He worked his mouth as he bowed his head and resumed cutting the rest of the fruit for the salad, the blade of the knife slicing into the cutting board in a quiet rhythm.

Emma pulled homemade Italian bread out of the oven, its warm, sweet aroma filling the room. Once everything was ready, Jack helped her carry the food into the dining room and set it on the small table, which only had enough seating for a meager four.

Jack praised Emma on how "fantastic" everything looked and she beamed at his compliment. After the wine was poured and their plates were full of steaming risotto, fresh salad, and a slice of buttered bread, the two of them enjoyed their meal and engaged in pleasant conversation. After a while, Emma could tell that Jack's interest was waning, so she tried to introduce a different topic, something she knew he was passionate about from their conversation at the coffee shop. She started off by asking him what he thought about the increase in crime in Gotham, a subject she herself actually knew quite a lot about, with her older brother being a police officer. The choice of topic succeeded in getting Jack to open up more, and his eyes were full of energy as he explained and vented his frustrations with Gotham and how idiotic people could be. He raved on in a low, scornful voice about how society was such a "joke" and that establishing rules only provoked people to want to break them.

Emma found his ideas too radical and drastic at first, but after her initial hesitance, she slowly began to find his ideas strangely fascinating. While she didn't quite know if she agreed with them, there was a certain truthfulness to the things he said and the ideas he offered. Emma was beginning to realize that Jack was a lot more interesting than she could have ever imagined.

His voice was low and hypnotic as he spoke, and Emma was convinced that he could tell her the most ridiculous and apocryphal idea she'd ever heard and she'd _still _believe him. There was just something about the way he spoke, the tone of his voice, the way his eyes shone—the truth and conviction behind them—and the way he gestured with his hands.

He was a man born and built of dark passion, skilled in the art of manipulation, and designed to deceive—all things of which Emma did not yet realize. But, then again, at the present time, neither did Jack.

Emma folded her hands in her lap and stared carefully at Jack, her brows furrowed slightly.

"So you're saying that we should live in a society_ without_ rules because that's the way we were born to be?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying." He shifted his chair closer to the table and licked his lips. "We're all _animals_, all vicious and cruel and uncaring, ready to tear each other apart at the drop of a hat when the situation presents itself or doesn't go down in our favor, but we . . . we all try to_ hide_ that. We try to convince ourselves that we're better than we really are. We can make ourselves believe anything, any lie, any distortion of the truth. Anything that can save us or make us _feel _better. It's the _illusion_ of progress—and it's all a _joke_. Everybody only ever thinks about themselves. The world is a selfish and cutthroat place. That's fact."

"All these _rules _though," he continued, saying the word disdainfully as his face twisted into a grimace, "hold people back from becoming what they _truly _are born and bred to be." When he finally finished his speech, Emma was staring at him, a bit awestruck. He smiled at her expression and put his forearms on the table, leaning over them as he addressed her. "With the exception of such a sweetheart like you, though," he said, grinning devilishly at her as his voice turned playful. He straightened and waved a hand at her almost dismissively. "You really are innocent, I can tell."

Emma smiled at hearing this, looking down into her lap before meeting his gaze once again. "And just what makes you think I'm so innocent?" she asked coyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and making Jack grin broadly at her and laugh, slapping his knee. This was so much _fun_.

He opened his mouth to respond back to her, (he had a damn good comeback, too,) but when the doorbell suddenly rang, it interrupted his words entirely.

Emma was taking a sip of wine when it happened and she quickly swallowed and set her drink down.

"That's odd," she frowned, "I'm not expecting anyone."

Jack was eager to pick up right where they left off, his knee bouncing anxiously under the table. "Leave it," he said distractedly, still staring at her as she turned her heads towards the door. "It's probably some kid selling cookies or something."

She looked torn over what to do, but when the phone rang, she sighed as she politely excused herself.

Jack frowned as he watched Emma disappear into the kitchen, replaying their conversation over in his head and thinking of other things he could say to her to help prove his point more effectively. There were so many more points he wanted to make. No one ever listened to him so interestedly about topics like this. She seemed genuinely intrigued by all the things he had to say, no matter how crazy they might have sounded, and Jack was so energized from the very idea of it all.

The doorbell rang again, distracting him from his excited thoughts. He ignored it and waited patiently for Emma to return, stealing a strawberry from the salad bowl.

When the doorbell rang _again_, however, twice this time, Jack growled to himself and pushed his chair back from the table. Emma was still in the kitchen talking, so he strode to the door and opened it himself.

When he saw who was standing outside, however, he frowned deeply, suddenly finding himself very, _very_ pissed off.

There on the doorstep, smirking proudly, was Marcus.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

To say that Jack was furious would have been an understatement.

"What are you doing here?"

His voice was disguised to hide his emotions, something he'd always been rather good at it, but he couldn't hide the emotion on his face, angry as he was. He couldn't believe Marcus_, _of all people, had interrupted their date. He should have figured as much. He had hoped to never see the kid again, but apparently, fate had other plans.

"I could ask you the same question," Marcus replied, the corners of his mouth just barely containing his arrogant, self-satisfied smirk. In that moment, Jack had never wanted to knock somebody unconscious quite as much as he wanted to now. He pictured his fist slamming into the boy's face, blood erupting from his nose and dribbling over his mouth and chin. He pictured grabbing Marcus by the collar of his shirt and hauling him forward before sending a fist dlying into his awaiting ribcage. He imagined his knuckles colliding with the bones there with enough force to crush them.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that the violent turn his thoughts had taken should have surprised him, but for whatever reason, they didn't.

At Marcus's words, Jack narrowed his eyes in warning, demanding an answer to his previous question.

"I came to see Emma," Marcus said defensively. "Is she here?" Without waiting for him to respond, he attempted to shoulder past Jack in the doorway, but Jack's arm shot up, blocking him from coming inside. He raised his brow at Marcus almost challengingly, just daring him to try and step past him again. The younger man responded by opening his mouth, about to hurl a nasty insult or two, but immediately stopped when the sound of Emma's voice floated from the hall.

"Jack? Who's at the door?" She stepped into view as she opened it wider, looking over Jack's arm as her eyebrows rose in obvious surprise. "Marcus?" Her face paled at the sight of him and she tried to compose herself. "What—what are you doing here?"

Smiling charmingly at her, he roughly pushed through Jack's arm, keeping his eyes on Emma the whole time while Jack glowered at him.

"I wanted to see you," he replied. "I have some questions about the English assignment due on Monday so I thought I'd stop by. That's okay, isn't it?"

As he tucked his hand into the pocket of his jeans, Emma took notice of the backpack that was slung over his shoulder, no doubt full of his class notes and English textbook. She shifted her weight to her other foot, trying to mask how uncomfortable she felt.

"How did you find my address?"

The surprise in her voice could not be mistaken, and Marcus would have smirked had he not been racking his brain for something to say. He was _not _about to tell her that he had followed her car home after school. His eyes darted from Jack's to Emma's and he swallowed. Straightening out his shoulders and trying to appear unfazed, he ignored the question, pretending like he hadn't heard it at all.

"So do you think you could help me out? It'll only take a minute."

Emma frowned, looking stricken over what to do. She looked at Marcus, and then at Jack, whose face was oddly impassive. The look would have fooled her if not for the way Jack's eyes had darkened. They were no longer that warm, chocolate brown, but instead were granite black and looked as cold as ice. She tore her gaze away and turned back towards Marcus, twisting her hands.

"Listen, now's not really a good time—"

"It'll only take a minute," he insisted, stepping further inside and shutting the door behind him. "I really need your help. I just feel so lost without it." He frowned and feigned an almost guilty look, secretly reveling in the pang of sympathy that passed over Emma's face. He had to hide his smirk at what a good actor he was.

Emma glanced towards Jack uncertainly, but he only stood in rigid silence, hands balled into fists at his side. She hated to make Marcus leave after he had already stepped inside. Plus, he had brought his backpack with him, too. She already felt guilty over the prospect of making him leave.

Sighing, she finally relented. "We can work in the living room."

Marcus smiled and moved past her, leaving Jack and Emma still standing in front of the door.

"Jack, I'm so sorry," she whispered to him. She threw a glance over her shoulder to see Marcus already seated on the couch, watching the two of them closely. She turned back to face him. "You don't mind, do you? I promise we'll only be ten minutes, tops."

After gnawing on the inside of his scars, he shrugged his shoulders, his eyes still black. He didn't meet her gaze.

"Yeah, it's fine."

"Thank you," she breathed, offering him a small smile before she turned to go into the living room, Jack following behind her. "What do you need help with?" she asked Marcus, seating herself next to him as he retrieved his textbook from his backpack and turned to the proper page.

Jack seated himself in a leather recliner across from the two of them, keeping his eyes on them as he leaned back in the seat and gripped the arms of the chair, trying not to rip it into pieces. He was going to snap if Marcus didn't leave soon. Everything about Marcus screamed _wrong_. It was obvious he liked Emma, and that fact alone made Jack not trust him one bit.

He knew it wasn't really his place, but he was starting to really like Emma, and he didn't want some idiot to screw things up for him. Jack didn't consider Marcus competition for Emma's affections by any means, he just didn't like how persistent Marcus was in his efforts to pursue her. The guy needed to take a fucking _hint_, and Jack was going to give him one. He was in high school for goodness sake; a guy like him should have been fucking the cheerleaders beneath the bleachers or something. _Not_ going after _his _girl.

When he calmed down enough to the point where he wasn't going to jump up and drag Marcus out the house, he loosened his grip on the arms of the chair, hoping that he hadn't left fingernail marks. Emma was sitting on the edge of her seat, leaning over the notebook in Marcus's lap as Marcus leaned back and draped his arm over the back of the couch, watching Emma and occasionally nodding his head as she explained something to him. Jack perked up his ears to listen to their conversation.

". . . easier if you write an outline first, but if that gets too difficult then just think back to your thesis statement and try to work from there."

"How long should my thesis statement be again? I know you've told me before but I always forget . . . ."

_You didn't forget, you fucking idiot,_ Jack wanted to shout.

Emma launched into an answer for his question, grabbing his pencil from his hand and scribbling some extra notes for him on the notebook in his lap. It was as she did this that Marcus's eyes steadily wandered upwards to meet Jack's. He offered a smug grin, enjoying the way Jack's eyes narrowed. Marcus was taunting him, provoking him into anger and _damn it all_, it was working and Marcus knew it.

Jack's voice suddenly cut through the room, deep and gravelly, like rocks grating on metal. "I uh, I think it's time for you to leave. _Now_." He stared pointedly at Marcus, working his mouth from side to side in a way that would have sent chills up any other man's spine. But Marcus wasn't fazed.

He seemed almost amused by Jack's words as he smirked at him. "I don't think we're quite done yet," he calmly replied.

The tension in the room was nearly too much to bear, and for a moment, Emma was sure that Jack was about to lunge. She interjected before Jack could add more fuel to the fire, not wanting things to get out of hand.

"Marcus," she started, "I think it's time for you to go. You should have everything you need now to complete the assignment."

Marcus frowned, lifting his eyes to meet Jack's triumphant smirk from across the room.

"Yeah, _right_." He snapped his book shut and hastily stuffed his things into his backpack.

Emma pressed his lips together and rose from the couch, smoothing out her shirt.

"See you around, Jack." Marcus winked at Jack as Emma's back was turned, grinning.

Marcus slung his backpack over his shoulder then as he followed Emma to the door, wanting nothing more than to put his hands on the small of her back and push her face first into the floor. He pictured himself fucking her in front of the door, a tight sensation of pleasure pooling in his lower stomach and then shooting deliciously lower. He ignored the urge to adjust his pants.

"I hope I was able to help," Emma said, opening the door.

"You'll be at school on Monday, right?"

"I will. And if you need any more guidance I can always set up a tutoring session for you, okay?"

Marcus chuckled. "Nah, no one can teach as well as you."

Emma smiled, but it was halfhearted. "Thank you. Have a good night." She held the door open for hm, and Marcus reluctantly stepped out, waving goodbye.

When the door was closed, Emma leaned against it, letting out a sigh just as Jack was rounding the corner.

"You alright?" he asked, stepping closer.

"Oh, I'm fine," she assured, brushing back a strand of hair. "I'm so sorry about that, I really am."

"This the first time he's showed up here?"

"Yeah," she said, her voice thoughtful, "I just . . . I don't even know how he got my address. The school wouldn't have given it to him, I'm sure . . . ."

"Do you want me to tell him to back off? Because I will."

"Oh, Jack, please don't," she pleaded. "You really don't have to do that. He'll be graduating in the spring and then he'll be off at college. Really, it's fine." To distract him, she placed a hand on his arm, guiding him back into the kitchen. "You like desert? I made brownies."

Emma spent the rest of the night trying to placate Jack, but he remained tense all throughout the rest of the evening.

The atmosphere calmed and things seemed to slow when they drank wine together in the dining room between the muted glow of candlelight, talking softly. Their dishes had been cleared from the table and only the smooth, white tablecloth and half-empty bottle of wine lay between them. Emma's elbows were propped onto the table, and Jack half-wished she would lay down her arms and extend them for him to hold.

They talked with each other until the evening regrettably drew to a close and midnight drew nearer.

"Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize it was so late."

"Hey, it's no problem."

He helped Emma carry their wine glasses into the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher. The room was dark, the yellowed light above dimmed to its lowest setting, forcing the shadows to dance along the edge of the walls.

Jack stared at Emma as she closed the cupboards above the counter, her back to him as he admired the curve of her waist and the way her hair brushed her shoulders.

When she turned, he stepped forward and closed the space between them, placing his hands on the counter on either side of her. She let out a shallow gasp as he addressed her with an impish grin.

"You make the best meals around, you know that?"

Emma blushed at their close proximity and murmured "thank you" just as Jack's lips descended onto her neck and her heartbeat began to quicken. He nipped at her skin, desperate to taste her, and Emma's neck rolled to the side in response, granting him more access.

He hungrily took it, bringing both hands to her face and brushing her hair behind her shoulders, opening her up to him. He hoped he wasn't taking things too fast, but the desire to lay his hands on her, to just _touch_ her in any way he could was nearly too much to bear. He continued to rain kisses along her jaw and over her collarbones, pushing her more forcefully against the counter. He wanted to grip her thighs and hoist her up onto it, but he wondered if she would try to resist out of shyness.

He groaned against her skin, his hands cupping her shoulders, when suddenly Emma cupped Jack's face and captured his lips with her own, bringing her hands to his chest as she gripped the lapels of his shirt.

Their kiss was heated at first, fast and needy and hot—but it gradually slowed into a longer, more passionate kiss, pressing closer and going deeper. It was a while before they pulled away, and when they did, it was with breathless satisfaction, leaving both with a longing for more.

"So what does this mean now?" Jack breathed against her skin, planting another kiss along her jaw, unable to stop himself.

"Do you like me, Jack?"

Jack swallowed, meeting her eyes. "I think I like you more than I should."

Emma could only smile, bringing her lips to his once more. "Then I guess that means we're official."

**x**

The two of them became inseparable after that night. They did everything together and could hardly stand to be apart.

It was torture to be away from Jack for the few hours that Emma was teaching. Jack felt the same way, and he'd often come to visit her in between classes or during lunch when they could sneak away from the hustle and bustle and talk with one another outside beneath the hanging moss trees or in any empty classroom.

After work they'd go out for dinner or back to Emma's house for a home-cooked meal. They'd do mundane things like watch TV together, take walks when the weather permitted, or simply read together, a passion they both shared.

They didn't socialize much or spend time with other friends. Jack always found something for the two of them to do alone, and Emma didn't mind; she found it flattering that Jack wanted to spend so much time with her, and a part of her even liked that he was sort of possessive. She felt like no one had ever cared for her as much as Jack did, and she found his protectiveness sometimes overbearing but also oddly pleasing.

For Emma, Jack was the perfect flaw. He was everything she had ever looked for in a man and so much more. There were many faucets to him and his personality that she couldn't wait to explore. He was shrouded in mystery and she was captivated when he spoke of his past and revealed little bits and pieces of it to her. It felt as if he were a puzzle and his past the pieces. She collected those pieces when she could, eager to learn more about him. He rarely spoke of family or relatives, and he hadn't even revealed his age or where he lived. She knew his parents were dead, that she had learned from their first conversation at the coffee shop, but he had never explained how or when. She wanted to know if they had passed away recently or if when Jack was a boy. She sensed that he carried a lot of emotional baggage, could sometimes see the pain of it inflicted in his eyes, but they were mere glimpses and nothing more. He had a way of masking his emotions well, but she didn't mind. If his problems were too painful to bring up, then she didn't want to pressure him into having to do so. She was convinced that he would tell her when he was ready.

As for Jack, his feelings towards Emma were much the same. She was perfect and could do no wrong in his eyes. He adored her innocence and how kindly she treated everyone. He couldn't stand to be apart from for too long for fear of his thoughts drifting down that unusual path that he didn't like. When he was with her, he liked who he was; his thoughts became clearer and less polluted. She made him feel different, better; more alive, somehow. She was the rock that kept him sane, and because of this he anchored himself to her. She kept him stable and secure. He didn't worry when he was with her. Emma made everything seem good again, gave him faith that the world could change and become a better place.

Things had moved fast from the very start, but the two of them weren't slowing down anytime soon, least of all Jack. The more time he spent with Emma, the harder it was to be away from her. When he was alone, he sulked. He holed himself in his small apartment, his heavy blackout drapes drawn shut, and paced in the darkness. He felt isolated and trapped in there, like his thoughts were closing in around him and his head would burst—but he didn't venture outside unless he had to.

Outside was a world of possibilities he didn't want to consider. For as long as he could remember, he'd been screwing around with bankers and ripping off the mob as if he were _born_ to do it. He didn't quite know when his little hobby had started, but he found it sort of entertaining. It took his mind off the things that he didn't want to think about. He was damn _good _at it, too.

Now that he was with Emma, though, he wanted to change. He didn't want to be bad anymore. He was killing himself inside, his mind poisoned by the things he had said, things he had seen, and the people he had _murdered_.

He felt drowned by the toxicity of his own thoughts, overwhelmed by the vulgar images that stained his very mind. His conscience was a wraith he couldn't escape, a monster that haunted him at every corner he turned and every door he opened. Mentally, he was barely hanging on to that last thread of sanity, and the more days that past, the thinner that thread seemed to grow.

That was why he needed Emma. She kept him rooted to the ground and made him feel good again. Every second spent away from her was a second closer to that thread snapping in half.

In his apartment, Jack paced the floor in front of the drapes with tireless persistence. The room was dark, silent. He could hear the ever-present cacophony of the city outside, but he was so used to the sounds that they barely registered in his mind. His hands were shaking, he realized, and he stuffed them into the pockets of his jeans, pretending that he hadn't noticed. Sweat beaded on his brow and at the nape of his neck, his heart racing and mouth dry. He swallowed and tried not to glance at the phone on the counter.

It was Saturday, and Emma was out with friends. He vaguely remembered her mentioning something about shopping for bridesmaid dresses for a friend's wedding, but the more he thought about it the angrier he became.

_Damn wedding. They don't need to try on fucking dresses. They've been gone for hours, when are they coming back? How can they take Emma from me? They don't deserve her; they don't need her like I do. She's too good for them. _

He was being irrational and in the back of his mind he somehow knew this, but he was too irate to care. His tongue swept along his cracked lips then and he stared at the phone, unable to wait any longer.

_She could be hurt or something,_ he tried to reason with himself. _I'm just going to see if she's okay._

He dialed her number and impatiently waited for her to pick up, clenching his hands.

"Hello?" Emma's cheerful voice greeted him like a cool breath of fresh air, and a choked noise escaped from the back of his throat when he slumped down into the barstool and realized how pitiful he was.

"Jack? Is that you? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He swallowed, smiling with relief at the sound of her voice. "How are you?" He propped his elbows on the counter and hung his head, his eyes closing as he cradled the phone to his ear. Sweat continued to bead around his neck, but if he tried hard enough, he could imagine her standing next to him and his anxieties would momentarily disappear.

"Oh, I'm having such a good day," she gushed. "Samantha's picked out her dress and it's so beautiful. All of us girls have already been fitted for our dresses and now we're just leaving for dinner." Jack smiled into the phone and swallowed, imagining the look of enthusiasm on her face. "Hey, make a turn right here. The restaurant's in that parking lot. Sorry about that." She seemed as if she was smiling then, and Jack could picture her blushing. "What have you been up to? Tell me about your day."

Jack gathered his voice, clearing his throat so he didn't sound so pathetic. "Oh, you know, just the usual." He thought about something interesting he could tell her, but nothing came to mind, his thoughts too hazed to propose a coherent response. "Will you be back soon? I was thinking maybe I could come over later."

"Oh, Jack," he could tell she was frowning over the phone, "I don't know how late we're going to be tonight, and I'll probably be tired by the time I get home."

Jack closed his eyes and clenched his fists, his stomach twisting into impossible knots.

"Jack? Are you still there?"

It was a moment before he could respond, his voice trapped in the confines of his throat. "Just," he coughed and cleared his throat, "just call me when you get back."

"I will, I promise."

Jack nodded even though she couldn't see and they both said their goodbyes. The phone clicked off and Jack let it slide out of his grip, his hands clutching at his scalp with painful intensity. He wanted to draw blood. He wanted to bleed from his scalp until he could bleed no more. He wanted to explode into a million tiny pieces and never be put back together again.

Something between a sob and a groan crawled from his throat and he collapsed onto the couch feeling breathless. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but even that wasn't a suitable escape from reality.

He felt weak for needing Emma as much as he did, but now that he had her, he didn't know if he would ever be able to let her go.

**x**

The next day, Jack arrived at Emma's house first thing in the morning. She answered the door in her bathrobe, clearly not expecting anyone so early in the morning.

"Jack?"

"Hey," he said, grinning at her as he leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. "You look cute."

"Oh." Emma seemed embarrassed by the compliment, but he loved the way she blushed whenever he said something nice about her. She pulled her bathrobe tighter around herself and opened the door wider for him to step inside. "What are you doing here so early?"

"I thought maybe we could go for a picnic. You like that kind of thing, right?"

"Yeah, but . . . Jack, you know it's only seven, right?"

"Of course I do," he smiled. "But I have something I want to show you."

Emma rolled her eyes at the mischievous glint in his eyes, and Jack stepped forward, smiling also. "Did you just roll your eyes at me, girl?"

"Yeah, I did. What are you gonna do about it, punk?" Emma grinned cheekily, stepping closer also.

"Well," Jack raised his brows, a display of mock seriousness as he wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her closer, "I think I may have to kiss you."

"I dare you," she retorted, and Jack needed no further invitation.

Emma smiled as their lips met, both of them laughing into the kiss and then pulling away to rest their forehead against each other's.

"Now go get ready," Jack urged. "And hurry."

Fifteen minutes later Emma was dressed and ready to go, and Jack drove them to Towson Park where they had had their first date together at the fair.

When they arrived, Jack unloaded a cooler from the trunk and Emma gasped in surprise. "You weren't joking about the picnic, were you?"

"Me, joke? Of course not." He smiled and Emma leaned forward to kiss him.

He smiled and pulled away, grabbing her arm. "Come on, hurry up. We're gonna miss it."

"Miss what?" she asked, but Jack only pulled her along after him.

They wound their way through the quiet park, Emma trying her best to keep up with Jack's long strides. It wasn't long, however, before they reached it.

Beyond the tall oak tree near the corner of the park was a small hill, and as the two of them crested the top, Emma was immediately struck by how beautiful the view was, putting a hand to her chest in awe.

"Oh, Jack, it's gorgeous."

The yellow of the sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, the sky beyond it the perfect shade of blue and seeming to reach as far as the eye could see.

"You like it?" He asked, his arms encircling her waist from behind.

"It's the most beautiful sunrise I've ever seen." She turned to look at him, cupping his face. "Thank you."

He kissed her then, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face and the way Emma's hand softly caressed his scarred cheek.

They spent the rest of the morning beneath the weathered oak tree. Brown, red, and yellow leaves scattered around them as they curled close to each other for warmth and talked well into the afternoon.

Jack and Emma were unaware, however, of the pair of jealous eyes that watched them from a distance, scrutinizing them in vengeful distaste.

Marcus was beside himself as he watched Jack ease Emma onto her back, straddling her. He lavished teasing kisses down her neck and over her collarbones, Emma smiling and laughing with girlish amusement.

Marcus didn't understand how Emma could possibly fall for someone like Jack. The bastard didn't deserve her attention, and he resented the fact that Jack was taking what Marcus saw as rightfully his. He had known Emma much longer than Jack had. He had wanted her longer and more than anybody had ever wanted her before. He _loved _her, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to have her for his own.

He didn't know how much longer he was going to be able to control himself. He had planned on waiting till graduation to explain to Emma how he felt about her, but now because of Jack there was an obvious wrench thrown into the mix.

Marcus wasn't going to be able to do anything about Jack, not without stirring up a lot of trouble. But it wasn't going to stop him from letting Emma know how he felt about her.

And he knew the perfect way to show her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The following weeks seemed to pass in a dizzying whirlwind. Jack was falling more in love with Emma each day, and Emma was all but glowing with excitement, having never felt so happy and perfect in her life. Jack completed her, made her feel beautiful and important, like she was truly worth something. He lavished her with more attention than she could have ever hoped to receive, and she felt safe and secure whenever he was around.

Teaching had become more enjoyable, if solely for the fact that she had something to look forward to at the end of each day.

Jack hadn't moved in—even though he had subtly mentioned the desire to do so on more than one occasion—but Emma was adamant that they should marry before living together. Perhaps it was old-fashioned, as many probably saw it to be, but she wanted their relationship to be special, to actually mean something. She desired the security and commitment that marriage provided, even if she already knew that Jack wasn't going anywhere without her either way.

As head-over-heels as they both were, Emma also knew they still needed more time. She wasn't ready for Jack to propose. They had only been dating for three months.

When she looked back on their time together, she couldn't believe how quickly their relationship had progressed. A part of her felt like she had known Jack for her entire life. The night they had spent at the fair together was a memory she would never forget. She had never felt so close to anyone.

Still, there was a lot she didn't know about Jack, a realization that was undoubtedly true, but didn't bother her. She loved Jack more than she had ever loved anyone before. She was convinced that he would reveal more of his past to her in time. He was a cloth, waiting to be unraveled before her eyes, but a cloth that had to be peeled away slowly, carefully, and with the utmost care.

It was a cool, overcast day in early December when things started to take a turn for the worse. The school day was just coming to a close when Emma received a call from the main office. She excused herself from her classroom just as the bell rang and her students began gathering up their books. She tried not to panic as her heels clicked down the hallway and students poured from their classrooms, chatting animatedly with their friends as lockers slammed. As she passed the entrance of the school, she caught sight of the heavy rainclouds hanging low over the treetops in the distance. She swallowed down the apprehension building in her throat and smoothed out her blouse as she entered the office where the secretary, Bethany, was waiting.

She passed the phone to Emma without saying a word and Emma took it, lifting the receiver to her ear almost hesitantly.

"Hello?"

"Emma," a female voice crackled over the phone, relieved, "I'm glad I got a hold of you."

"Mom?" She held the receiver closer to her ear. "Is everything okay?"

"I've been trying to reach you all week, why haven't you been answering?"

Emma winced at the accusatory tone in her mother's voice. "I don't know what you mean. I haven't had any missed calls from you or any messages on my answering machine," she explained.

"And your cell phone?" her mother asked. "What about that?"

"Jack's borrowing it at the moment, his phone is broken and he needs mine for—"

"Jack? Who's Jack?"

Emma sighed, running a hand through her hair and shutting her eyes. She couldn't believe she hadn't told her mother about Jack yet. She hadn't called her parents in almost a month, she realized, the longest she had ever gone without talking to them. She felt guilt wash over her and she clutched the phone closer to her ear.

"I know I haven't called in a while," she began, "It's just that I've been so caught up in—"

"Your grandmother's in the hospital, Emma. That's why I called."

"What?" Emma paused. "Is—is she okay?"

"She's not, that's why I've been trying to get a hold of you."

"What happened?"

"Emma . . . it'd probably be best if you came back to Colorado for a while. We don't know how much longer she's going to have."

**x**

When Emma arrived home only an hour later, she was surprised to find Jack's car parked in the driveway. She pulled up beside it and let the ignition die as she unbuckled her seatbelt.

Jack was waiting on the porch steps and he stood when he saw her, his face splitting into a relieved smile.

"Hey," she smiled a bit confusedly as the car door slammed shut behind her. "What are you doing here?" They embraced on the sidewalk and Jack let his arms slip around her, relishing in her warmth and feeling relief wash over him as he was welcomed with her familiar scent. When they pulled way, Emma looked up into his face, noticing for the first time how pale he looked. His skin was an almost sickly shade of white. "Are you alright? You look sick."

She brought a hand to his forehead then, but Jack brushed it away and shrugged his shoulders, dismissing her question.

"I missed you today," he said, smiling as he pushed back a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. "I thought we could make dinner here instead of going out like we had planned. I went to the store and. . . " Jack trailed off when he noticed the expression on her face, and he instantly became grave. "Hey, what's the matter? Is it Marcus? Did something happen today?"

"No, no, of course not," she assured, resting a hand on his forearm to put him at ease. "It's not that." She felt him relax and then paused to glance up at the sky. The rain clouds had gotten darker as the afternoon progressed, and they looked ready to burst. "We should go inside."

"Wait," he said, pulling her back to him. "Tell me what's wrong first."

Emma sighed, forcing a feeble smile at his worried expression. "It's my grandmother," she began. "She—she's in the hospital and she's not doing well."

"Oh."

He didn't know quite what to say. He wasn't sure of Emma's relationship with her grandmother or how close the two of them where—if the two of them were even close at all—but it was obvious to him that her ailment was enough to cause Emma a considerable amount of grief.

"I'm so sorry." He pulled her into his arms where she rested her head against his chest, his hands running along her back soothingly.

"Thank you," she whispered, hugging him back. "Anyways," she smiled weakly, smoothing her blouse as they pulled away. "I'll leave for Colorado tonight and probably stay for a week. I've already contacted my substitute and she's prepared to take over on Monday."

If Emma thought Jack had been pale before, then the shade of white he turned in that instant was incomparable.

"Jack, what's the matter?"

"You—you said a week?" he tried not to stammer over his words, suddenly feeling dizzy.

"Yes," she affirmed, furrowing her brows. "Are you alright, Jack? You don't look well. Here, you should sit down." She tried to lead him towards the porch steps, but he waved her away and put a hand to his forehead instead as if he had a sudden migraine. His skull was throbbing, as if something was pounding away inside of it that wanted to be set free.

He tried contemplating a week without Emma. A whole _week_. He couldn't do that, he just couldn't. A single_day_ without her was unbearable, a whole week would be impossible.

He let his hands tangle in his hair, shutting his eyes. "Don't go," he murmured. He didn't open his eyes until he had finished speaking. "Please, please don't go." His eyes searched her face, his brown gaze imploring with hers in a desperate entreaty.

"Jack," Emma started, at a loss for words, "my grandmother may be dying. I have to go. This might be the last time I ever get to see her."

"Then let me go with you," he urged. "We can fly out to Colorado together."

"But you can't miss work, I won't let you."

"It's no big deal." He swallowed, shifting closer. "I'll just—"

"I haven't even told my family about you yet, Jack," she interrupted softly, placing a hand on his arm. "It's just a delicate time right now. I don't want your first meeting with my parents to be when they're going through so much grief."

Jack swallowed the lump in his throat, watching as Emma's gaze drifted towards a car that passed by on the street. She waved politely as they passed.

His attention didn't falter from her for even a second. "When do you have to leave?" he asked as she turned back to face him.

"My plane leaves at eight tonight."

". . . Can I at least drive you to the airport?"

Emma responded with a smile before planting her lips on his, kissing him tenderly. "Of course."

**x**

If this was what dying felt like, then he was surely experiencing it.

Jack was wasting away to nothing. Life, it seemed, had lost what little purpose he had given it. Without Emma, nothing seemed to matter anymore. He felt sluggish and unmotivated, could hardly force himself out of bed in the morning.

She had been gone two days. Just _two days_—and he felt like the world was falling apart around him.

During the day, he fidgeted restlessly; a constant, cold sheen of sweat always seemed to coat his skin. He called Emma as often as he could, shamelessly savoring the sound of her voice over the phone and always trying to prolong their conversations by asking her questions when she said she had to go.

He didn't eat. He drank water, downed a whole carton of orange juice (and later puked it up when the acid was too much for his empty stomach to handle,) and also managed a few sports drinks, though they did little to boost his energy.

Each day felt like an eternity, every hour seemed to drag on longer than the next. He didn't know what to do with himself. His apartment was a wreck. Cups had begun piling in the sink, his bed was never made, his laundry was strewn about the floor as if they had been caught in a nasty windstorm, and he hadn't gone downstairs to check his mail since the day she had left.

He tried to occupy his mind with other things—he thought that watching TV might help, or perhaps listening to music would soothe him—but the only thing he wanted to see or hear was Emma, and he couldn't let her escape from his mind for even a second.

Sometimes during the night he'd call her home—knowing she wouldn't be there— just so he could hear the sound of her voice playing over the answering machine. It didn't take long for him to memorize each and every little inflection in her voice.

Each time he called, he always hung up before he could leave a message. A part of him didn't want Emma to know how dependent he was becoming of her, while another part of him _did_ want her to know. He wanted her to realize how much he needed her—perhaps then she would feel bad about leaving him and wouldn't do so. She had to know how much he couldn't stand to be without her. He was driving himself crazy without her.

When she wasn't around, he feared the direction in which his thoughts tended to turn. The longer she was away from him, the more distinct the voices in his head became. His mind was a chaotic jumble of pictures and sounds—memories he didn't want and literally had to _fight_to push away.

On the third day, he couldn't take it anymore. His apartment was a toxic hole, and he knew he'd be a disaster waiting to happen if he trapped himself inside for a second longer.

So he went to the docks. The same docks where he had murdered those innocent bystanders. All of them.

He had murdered _all_of them.

The cold was snake-like as it bit into his skin as he stood on the pier, looking out over all the barges that floated atop the water. The moon was a bright, burning disc, reflecting off the black waves and making them look like dark, rippled sheets of metal.

If he closed his eyes, he could still hear their screams, could still taste their spattered blood on his tongue and remember the way his laughter had rung out in the still of the night.

God, he had _laughed_; laughed at them like the sick bastard he was even as tears streamed down his face.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets for warmth and exhaled, watching his breath float around him in the crisp winter air, trying to remember, trying to forget.

Jack's ears perked when he heard the sound of voices in the distance. He turned on his heel and frowned, listening closely. There seemed to be an argument of sorts, and Jack, always curious, wanted to know what it was about.

As he crept closer, he made sure to keep to the shadows, not wanting to be seen. The pavement was slick from an earlier rain, and the asphalt winked at him when the orange-ish hue of the lamplight shone upon it.

He hid himself behind a large metal crate and peered around the corner of it. Men were loading cardboard boxes into the back of a semi. Jack narrowed his eyes and peered closer where several opened boxes were stacked on the pavement. _Plush toys?_ He thought. _But why?_

A heavyset man wearing a brown leather jacket and dark, casual dress pants stepped forward and spoke some words to the men that Jack couldn't make out. The men seemed almost nervous in his presence, but the man with dark curly hair chuckled after a moment and disappeared around the corner, by which time the men had already resumed their work. A car door slammed next, and Jack wanted to get closer to get a better look.

He paused, however, when something seemed to catch the men's attention and they paused all at once. He stilled his movements, thinking that for a second he had been spotted, but relaxed when he realized their attention had been directed elsewhere. He crouched down and remained in the shadows as he waited to see what would happen next. One of the men called out a name into the alley created by the maze of metal crates, but his companion never responded.

Just then, the overhead lights that dangled from the make-shift metal rigging above the crates flickered. A metal crashing soon followed. One of the men bent down to pick up a small object that had caught his attention on the ground, and that was when all Hell broke loose.

Something, Jack didn't know what, seemed to fall from the rigging above the two men. Whatever it was, it was black, and it was _big_.

One of the men yelled, and seconds later, gunfire broke loose.

Jack's heart was beating fast, eager to know what was happening. There was a moment of tense silence as all the remaining men looked around in confusion. Jack heard two car doors slam somewhere off behind him. The man in the leather jacket was leaving.

More gunshots were fired, and then, a voice, clear as day, shouted, "_Where are you_?"

Then, silently, the large, black figure dropped from the rigging. Jack watched it all as the hooded and decidedly _caped_ figure began to fight.

However, there wasn't much of a fight to be had, Jack noted with slight awe. The caped figure was beating them to a pulp. The others stood no chance. He easily took them out, one by one; not killing them, but simply rendering them immobile or unconscious. It was a rush, watching him move. In a blur of black color, he was something of a ninja, his actions swift and calculated. Jack was fascinated, watching it all from a safe distance away.

In only seconds, all of the figure's opponents were sprawled across the asphalt, and the caped man stood over them, as if examining his work. Jack couldn't believe what he had just seen.

For a while—he wasn't sure long—he sat crouched in the shadows, unable to move. He didn't know what he had just seen transpire, but it had been captivating. He had never seen someone move with such speed and agility, with such strength and sheer _purpose_.

At the sound of police sirens, some of the men sprawled on the ground started to come to. Shouting a string of profanities, the men got to their feet while others still lay unconscious, unable to move.

Police cars skidded to a halt where the semi was parked. Armed officers quickly exited their vehicles and took off after the men who had made a run for it.

Jack knew that it was time to leave then; the quicker the better. He crept along the side of a large crate and hoped to leave the way he had come, but the officers had the docks surrounded, and he was quickly spotted.

"Stop right there and put your hands up!"

Jack spun on his heel and faced the officer who stood naught but yards away. The two of them locked eyes.

For a moment, he felt utter panic race through him, like no other panic he had felt before. The officer thought he was with_them_, the guys that the masked figure had just beaten to a pulp. He swallowed, unsure of his next move. He knew that if they caught him, it'd be all over, and he'd go to jail for the rest of his life because they'd _know_ what he had done.

_Fuck._

"Get on the ground and put your hands over your head!" the cop ordered.

With a cold sweat beading at his brow and neck, Jack looked the officer straight in the eye . . . and then turned in the opposite direction and ran.

**x**

Later that evening, his excitement over the black, caped vigilante had temporarily escaped his thoughts, and, in the darkness of his apartment, he could think of nothing but his worst nightmares.

Being at the docks had only served to remind him of the memories he had desperately been trying to lock away. When he was with Emma, she helped him do that, helped him forget the things he didn't want to remember. But now that she was gone for the time being, he knew that going to the docks had been a huge mistake.

He had paced his apartment at first, anything that would distract him from his thoughts. With trembling hands, he paced until he thought he would wear the carpet out and until his neighbors below him yelled for him to stop.

Later in the evening, he curled himself on his bed and crossed his arms over his head; the action did little to drown out the cacophony of screams that pierced his ears. It felt as though they were bleeding, and he was powerless to stop it.

Outside, snow lazily fluttered in the crisp winter air, the first of the season. It dusted the city in a thin white blanket, though it would be gone in the morning. People chattered on the street below and cars honked in the never ending stream of traffic. A group of city workers were setting up a giant Christmas tree in Central Square.

Jack was oblivious to it all. He cried out into his mattress as sharp nails dug into his skull. His bedspread was pushed to the floor as he twisted on the mattress, as if in pain. He had to make it stop. He had to think about something else.

However, when he closed his eyes, blood coated the back of his lids. It was all he could see. Red, metallic blood, shining in the ugly dark. Everything was coated in it, everything was _bleeding_.

He cried, then, tears stumbling over his cheeks as he sobbed open-mouthed onto his sheets. It hurt to think. The screaming was unbearable and continued to increase in decibel. His head pounded like a thousand drums, a grisly chorus of excruciating sound.

Shaking, he pulled himself up from the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, half blind. He gripped the edge of the sink with both hands and hung his head as a shiver wracked his body. Swallowing, he lifted his head and opened the mirror, his fingers scrambling for the small white bottle he knew he kept in the corner of the cabinet. With shaking hands, he popped open the cap and hastily dumped the contents into his waiting palm, sending white pills scattering down the sink and across tiled floor.

He brought the pills to his mouth and swallowed them without water, closing his eyes as they traveled his throat. His lids, heavy and blurred from his tears, fluttered languidly as he tried to focus his vision away from the black dots that threatened to encompass it. His tongue felt along his dry, cracked lips, expecting to taste the salt of his tears there but discovering something decidedly bitter and metallic instead. In horror, he raised his head to the mirror and saw not tears streaking his cheeks, but blood. It was pouring from his_eyes_, sliding itself between the crevices of his scars and trickling over his lips and throat.

At the sight of himself, his breath was torn from his lungs in a painful spasm of gasps. He clutched the mirror with both hands, the veins in his arms visible beneath the strain of his muscles, and tilted his face towards the light. Blood gleamed at him like the ripples of moonlight across a dark lake. He blanched.

Suddenly lightheaded, the floor rose to meet him as his fingers sought purchase on the side of the tub to keep himself from falling face-first. He landed on his side and gripped the tub with shaking hands, pressing his face into the cool ceramic tiles. As blood continued to gush from his eyes, the ground quaked beneath him. He let out a sharp cry and clawed at his face. His jagged nails dug into his skin, ripping his flesh open, and ultimately spilling more blood.

Screaming, he slipped into unconsciousness.

**x**

Emma arrived home late on Saturday evening. Her flight had been delayed due to inclement weather and she had spent three hours slumped over in one of those uncomfortable, modern-looking chairs at the airport with the sloped back that dug into her spine.

Beneath the trees that shrouded her neighborhood, the wind was silent as she fumbled for her keys at the front door. At the end of the street, her neighbor's German shepherd barked, probably at some stray cat that had wandered in from beneath the fence, and sirens wailed from inside the city. The night was dark, the moon hidden behind a blanket of black clouds.

She clutched her jacket tighter to her frame as she juggled her purse and overnight bag over one shoulder and pushed open the door.

"Oh, it's freezing," she murmured to herself as she entered. She let her bags slide to the floor in the hallway and shut the door behind her. She checked the thermostat and frowned. _Why isn't this on?_

With a sign, she set the temperature back to its designated setting and hoped that it would warm the house before she crawled into bed. In the living room, the red light from her answering machine flashed in greeting from the coffee table. She slumped onto the couch with a long sigh and pressed play.

_You have fifty-seven new messages._

Emma gaped. _Fifty-seven?_She leaned forward and stared, open-mouthed, and listened as the first message played.

For a moment, all was silent. Seconds passed before there was any audible sound, then, there was an abrupt click and the connection died. The next fifteen messages that played were all the same, some interrupted by sounds of heaving breathing before the call ended.

Frustrated, Emma pressed the delete button again and again. Was this some kind of practical joke? _Could it be Marcus?_she wondered. She felt herself pale at the idea of it and erased all the other messages with one click. She couldn't bear the thought of listening to more.

In the dark, she glanced at the glowing numbers beneath her TV. _11:52_.

With aching joints, she hauled her bags into her room and set them by the door. She'd unpack in the morning.

She showered quickly, enjoying the cascading stream of warmth on her skin, and brushed her teeth, barely cognizant enough to pull on some under garments before slipping beneath the cover of her sheets.

At five AM the next morning, there was an abrupt knock on the front door. Emma was jerked from her dreams, startled, and she rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she swung her legs over the bed. Quickly, she retrieved her bathrobe hanging over the closet door and pulled it on. She stumbled through the early morning darkness, her blinds drawn shut and the sun not yet risen, and made her way to the door. She didn't bother to glance through the peephole as she pulled it open.

In an instant, arms were surrounding her middle and she was clutched with bruising force to someone's chest. She gasped in surprise, but seconds later was able to relax when she recognized Jack's familiar sent.

"Oh, God, I missed you," he said, burrowing his face in her neck. He kissed her there, almost roughly, and Emma felt herself smiling, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Jack, you scared me. What are you doing here so early?" She tried to pull away to look into his eyes, but he secured his arms tightly around her waist and refused to let go.

"I had to see to you. I meant to be here last night but I—I got sidetracked." He sighed into her hair, his body unwinding with the week's pent up stress as he let himself melt into her. He closed his eyes and touched her hair. "You have no idea how much I missed you," he whispered.

"I missed you," she said back, kissing his chest as he finally allowed her to pull away. When she glanced up at his face, however, a gasp escaped from her throat and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Jack," she breathed. "My God . . . what happened to you?" She stared at his face in horror, her eyes trailing over the bloodied lines and cuts that stained his visage. It looked as if a cat had taken its claws and ran them down his face, from forehead to jaw. His eyes were particularly red, as if he had been crying for days. She felt her own tears stinging her eyes when she gazed upon his ruined skin. "Oh, God," she murmured. She reached out a hand to gently brush the tips of her fingers against his jaw. He winced. "Jack . . . what is this?" she begged, nearly breathless. "Who did this to you?"

His eyes didn't leave hers for a second. "It's nothing," he said, though Emma wasn't convinced in the least. Before she had a chance to question him further though, he moved closer and held her face between his hands, pulling her lips towards his in desperation.

Like a man who had been lost in the desert for weeks, he drank her like water, drowning himself in her very essence. His brows were furrowed as if he were in pain as he kissed her. Emma felt helpless to stop him.

Her mind was racing a mile a minute as his lips moved over hers, but she couldn't bring herself to stop him. She found herself quickly succumbing beneath his touch, her knees weak. They had kissed like this before, but never had she felt Jack so utterly desperate.

Their kiss became very hot, very fast. Jack let his hands fall to her shoulders and began guiding her to her bedroom, never once breaking the embrace of their lips.

Breathing hard, he had to stop halfway to lift her hips to meet his. She barely had time to wrap her legs around his waist before he had roughly forced her into the wall near the hallway closet. He touched her sides, grasping for her as if she might suddenly vanish and disappear into thin air. Her own hands roamed over his broad, sinewy shoulders, nails scraping at his neck.

He whimpered against her, helpless, and knew then that he was at her complete mercy as she felt along his shoulders, delicate and timid as her touch was. He'd do anything for her, anything she asked of him and then some. He thrust his hips against her, cursing himself for being unable to control his desire, but reveling in the pleasure the action brought him all the same. Emma gasped at the abruptness of it and felt a delicious warmth pool low in her stomach.

With a gasp, they broke apart. Emma moved to place a kiss near his ear as he held her close, moving his hands up her thighs. Her softness drove him wild, and he urged her further as he carried her into the bedroom. Swallowing, he laid her down onto the bed and covered her body with his own. He was panting hard as he trailed kisses over her neck. She arched into his touch and gripped his forearms.

"Jack," she gasped, "Slow down."

Jack wasn't slowing down. He undid her robe with trembling hands and let the silk fabric fall from her shoulders, pushing her arms out of the sleeves. His eyes followed his hands as he heatedly moved them over her skin, fingers trailing between her breasts and then lower still. He smoothed his palm over the flat plane of her abdomen and then kissed her hard, groaning into her mouth.

Quickly, he undid his belt, the metal buckles clinking together and mingling with the sound of their heavy breathing. His long fingers fumbled with the button on his jeans.

He had never wanted anything as badly as he did in that moment. His hands were shaking and he cursed. He could feel beads of sweat gathering along his brow, and in frustration he buried his head against her neck, his hands between them and still working on the zipper of his jeans.

Jack's resolve nearly unraveled when Emma's hands hesitantly slipped beneath his shirt and her fingers glided over the bare contours of his chest and abdomen. He groaned at her touch and nipped her ear to let her know that he liked it.

After what felt like an eternity, his jeans came undone. He pulled his shirt off first, eager to feel Emma's bare skin against his own. With his hands pressed against the mattress on either side of her head, he thrust his hips against hers, too impatient to remove his jeans. He did it twice more before Emma suddenly withdrew her hands from his chest and tensed.

Oblivious to it, Jack paused to remove her bra.

"Jack, stop," she urged, breathless. "This . . . this is too fast."

"Emma, please," he groaned. He placed open-mouthed kisses along her neck and settled his weight more firmly atop her.

"Jack, _stop_," she said again.

Breathless, he paused reluctantly and met Emma's eyes for the first time since they had started. His gaze swept over the red flush of her cheeks and her parted lips. He longed to have more of her.

"We . . . we have to stop. This isn't right."

"What is it? What am I doing wrong?" he said quickly, planting kisses along her jaw line to appease her.

"It's just, this is so fast and—and we're not even married . . . ."

"Then let's get married."

Emma blanched. "W—what?"

"Let's do it. Right now. Let's get married."

"Jack, you don't even know what you're saying." Emma tried to lift herself onto her elbows, but he pushed her back down, maintaining his dominant position over her.

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you," he said from above her, fingers tangling in her hair that had fanned across the sheets. "I want to see your face every morning when I wake up. I want to hold you and kiss you and I want to protect you. _Please_," he finished. "I've never wanted anything or anyone more than I want you."

Emma searched the desperation in his eyes, overcome with emotion. "You don't even know what you're saying!" she cried. "You're not thinking straight. Please, Jack, think this through first."

"I don't _need_ to think. I've done plenty enough of that." His eyes suddenly turned bitter, and Emma pushed her shoulders into the mattress, almost as if to put more space between them. He narrowed his eyes at the gesture.

"Why do you keep pulling away? Please just—just let me have you."

Emma could feel tears stinging the backs of her eyes, and her gaze faltered to wear Jack's belt was undone and hung loosely in the straps of his jeans. She closed her eyes and blinked away tears. Almost immediately she felt his hands on her face, tender and delicate and warm.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I—I shouldn't push you. It's just . . . the closer I get to you, the more like I feel like you pull away. You're always . . . just out of reach."

The desperation in Jack's voice, like nothing she had ever heard from him before, was enough to make her heart crack in two. This was a side of Jack she had never seen before. This wasn't the confident, charming, slightly-awkward but handsome man she had run into at the bookstore. This was someone who had reached his wit's end, someone who was pouring out the very depths of his soul and was hopelessly grasping for salvation in a way where he could never seek enough purchase.

"I don't want to pull away from you," Emma insisted as Jack's thumb brushed away her tears. "But I—I don't _know_you, Jack. There are so many things you won't tell me. I . . . I have to be able to trust you." She smiled sympathetically then, bringing her fingertips to his scarred visage. "What happened?" she whispered, delicately stroking his cheek. "Please tell me."

For a moment, he was silent. His gaze dropped from hers and he searched for the proper words. His throat tightened at the thought of telling her what had really happened—the_truth_.

The truth that, while she had been gone he had hallucinated in his bathroom and had nearly ripped out his eyes because he thought they had been bleeding. The truth about how he had overdosed and knocked himself unconscious for days. That he hadn't eaten for the entire week she was gone. That the voices in his head were getting louder and the constant _screaming_ of the people he had murdered was becoming too much to bear. How could he possibly tell her that?

He knew she was waiting for a response, a response he couldn't give her. He couldn't tell her the things he had done. She wouldn't love him anymore, and then he'd be lost forever. He'd get locked up, if not in jail then in an insane asylum. He'd be a lost soul, forever regretting his past mistakes. Emma was his last and only hope. He'd be damned if he'd let her slip away.

So he resolved to keep his secrets buried, even if it meant he was going to have to lie to keep the two of them together.

"It was a small scuffle at the bar . . . I was out with friends and I got drunk. We were just being stupid. _I_was being stupid . . ." Jack trailed off, impressed with how easily the lies spilt from his tongue, like water from a faucet.

As half expected, Emma wasn't angry with him, but worried instead. "Are you alright? How did it happen?" She bit her lip as her brows drew together in concern, and Jack thought she had never looked so cute.

"It's nothing, Emma," he said, fingers tracing along her hairline, hoping to distract her. He offered her a small smile to assuage her fears, wanting her to forget, wanting himself to forget, and most of all wanting things to go back to the way they were.

He was still very aware of the fact that she was only half dressed, and also very aware that he desperately wanted to finish what they had started.

She suddenly seemed to notice this too, for a blush crept up her cheeks and she smiled embarrassedly. Attempting to pull her bathrobe around her, Jack stopped her by gently clasping her wrists and pinning them near her head. He lowered his body over hers, straddling her legs, and kissed her slowly on the mouth.

When they pulled apart, Jack smiled, letting her know that he wasn't going to force her to do anything she wasn't ready for.

He kicked off his boots and lay beside her then, snaking his arms around her and hugging her to him. She placed a kiss on his chest and nestled her head there, content to simply lay with him and sleep the rest of the morning away.

He sighed into her hair and closed his eyes, holding her tightly and wishing that she would never want him to let go.

_I still have her_, he thought. He had to lie to keep her, but it was a lie he would be willing to make every day of his life if it meant that he could hold her like he was in that moment.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Strands of morning sunlight filtered in between the blinds of Emma's room, casting yellow rays upon the carpet. Emma's eyes fluttered open at the intrusion of light and she blinked. Jack's long, warm arms were still curled around her, hugging her close to his chest, her legs intertwined with his. She smiled into his chest and snuggled closer, her breath tickling the bare skin of his neck.

"Good morning," she whispered, planting a soft kiss on the underside of his jaw.

"Emma," he greeted, exhausted, but happy to see her. He grinned at her through sleepy eyes. "You look beautiful."

She blushed at his compliment and tried to look away, but he placed a hand underneath her chin, bringing her lips towards his. Tenderly they kissed, relieving memories of earlier that morning and content to be in each other's arms.

"Did you sleep okay?" she asked when they had pulled apart. She stared into his eyes, loving the way the sunlight danced across his long lashes and ignited the golden specks in his eyes.

"Never slept better." His fingers delicately traced an invisible map across the contours of her collarbones, and Emma shivered at his touch. He stared at her closed lids and regarded her with a small smile. "I meant what I said earlier, you know. About getting married."

Slowly, Emma's eyes opened and she looked up at him. "We haven't known each other for that long," she mused, trailing a finger across his chest. "Do you think you love me enough?"

Jack laughed, "I think I love you _more _than he enough."

_Maybe a little too much,_ he thought.

Emma simply smiled and snuggled close to him. "Just hold me," she whispered. That's all she wanted. She didn't want to complicate everything with marriage. She was happy and content. That was all she needed right now.

"Now that I can do," he replied with a smile. His arms tightened around her and they drifted back to sleep.

**x**

The following day, Emma returned to work. Gotham Heights was buzzing with excitement. Students were impatient for the week to be over, eager to start their Christmas break. The hallways were decorated with red, white, and green paper chain links, and students had drawn and colored giant Christmas trees as posters for the classroom doors. Blue cut-out snowflakes dangled from classroom ceilings. Faux gifts wrapped in colorful, glossy paper lay beneath the giant tree in the lobby. The atmosphere felt so alive, and Emma loved it.

Christmas had always been her favorite holiday, and she took great pleasure in decorating her classroom, hoping it would encourage her students to participate in the school's winter festivities.

The Sadie Hawkins dance was nearest on the school calendar, and in the classrooms and in the halls girls chattered excitedly about what boy they would ask to go with them.

At the beginning of each class throughout the day, Emma informed her students that tickets for the dance were available for purchase in the lobby and also at her desk.

Marcus, she noticed, whom she had been growing to ignore more and more due to Jack's urgent persistence of the matter, seemed particularly interested in this news. When the bell rang at the end of the day, he was, once again, the last to gather his books and make his way towards the front. Their daily routine started. He stopped in front of her desk as Emma erased her notes from the chalkboard. As usual, he was the first to speak.

"So . . . are you going to the dance, Miss Layne?"

Emma chuckled, in a good mood. She had dinner later that night with Jack and her brother, and she wasn't going to let herself be troubled by Marcus's questions. Briefly, she was reminded of the messages on her answering machine. She pushed them away. _Marcus wouldn't have done that_, she told herself. "And what interest is that to you?" she asked.

"I was just wondering," he shrugged.

Turning around to face him, she set her eraser on the desk. "I'm going as a chaperone, yes."

A wide grin stretched across Marcus's handsome face, his brown eyes dancing. "Then I guess I will be seeing you there."

His grip tightened around the backpack slung over his shoulder and he grinned, almost mischievously, as he left the classroom.

Frowning, Emma stared after him. She found it odd that he hadn't lingered longer or asked for any assistance with his homework.

_Well,_ she thought, _I'm certainly not going to complain about it_. Maybe things were finally starting to click for him?

**x**

Later that evening, Emma and Jack were seated in a swanky, upscale restaurant in Monolith Square, sipping red wine as they waited for the arrival of Emma's brother.

Carter, three years Emma's senior, had moved to Gotham from Colorado only shortly after her own arrival. It seemed there was a desperate need for employment in almost every field. People were leaving the city in hordes. Tourists, Emma and Carter both came to find, were a rarity. The only outsiders who dared brave the city were business partners or outside executives of Wayne Enterprises. Even then, they never stayed for long. Some even took up temporary residence outside the city when they arrived for business meetings. No one wanted to stay in the filth-ridden hole any longer than they had to. Gotham was a cesspool for crime, and people were leaving it in mass exoduses.

It was this very thing that pulled Carter to Gotham. Like a moth to a flame, Carter was eager to join a new police force after having served with the CPD and feeling less than appreciated there. In Gotham, he knew that his services would be more valued—or at least more needed.

White, sparkling lights dangled from the ceiling over the clear glass tables, casting a wintry, ethereal glow. Low chatter and murmurs drifted about the room. Yellow red flames burned leisurely in the sleek, stainless steel fireplace in the center of the room. Waiters bustled about with glasses of wine and delicious-looking entrees.

Jack's arm was draped casually over the back of Emma's chair as he leaned in close to whisper over the shell of her ear. Emma felt his fingers twine around her ponytail, curling it around his long, slender fingers as he spoke in a low murmur.

Lately, it seemed like Jack wasn't able to keep his hands off her. They had been much more intimate ever since the night he had slept over. In the car, he always reached over to hold her hand in his lap—even if Emma protested at first because she didn't want him to drive with one hand. When they were out, he placed a hand on the small of her back or looped it around her waist, always needing to have her close. Emma thought it was cute, the way he always seemed to need to keep his hands on her. Deep down, however, something like worry tugged at her gut. It was a feeling she was trying hard to repress, but she couldn't help but think that Jack was being awfully clingy, as if he couldn't bear to not have his hands on her in some way, lest she suddenly disappear into thin air.

She wanted to voice her concerns to him. Repeatedly she pictured how the scenario would unfold in her head: "Jack, listen, you've been really touchy-feely lately and I'm just wondering if something's bothering you…" but each scenario seemed more ridiculous than the last. She was probably worrying about nothing. She'd always had a tendency of doing that, a flaw her mother had constantly berated her for when she was younger.

_It's nothing_, she told herself. She was flattered that Jack always wanted to touch her and be close to her. She loved that about him; he made her feel desired.

As Jack continued to whisper intimately in her ear, Emma let herself be drawn out of her thoughts. She smiled coyly and whispered back to him.

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

Jack's low, pleased laughter sounded in her ear. He loved it when she flirted with him, said things to him that normally would have made her blush. "That is definitely a promise." His pleased smile hovered over her mouth as he moved in to kiss her.

"Hey!"

From around the corner, a tall, handsome man with short brown hair appeared. Jack and Emma pulled apart as Carter drew near. Jack suddenly felt his heart stop point blank in his chest. Emma, unaware, rose to greet her brother.

"It's good to see you," she smiled at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He was dressed smartly in dark slacks and a matching jacket. Beneath it, he wore a navy blue button up.

"It's good to see you as well," he said. "You look great." He smiled warmly an then moved towards Jack, extending his hand. "You must be the lucky guy Emma's told me about."

"Yes," was all he could manage to say. He tried swallowing down his growing panic, but it felt as if it had trapped itself within his throat. He stood only briefly to shake hands and then quickly resumed his seat. His eyes wandered in every direction but Carter's.

Carter's brows creased at Jack's seemingly odd behavior, but otherwise he said nothing.

"I'm sorry to keep you both waiting," he said as he took his seat across from the couple. "Paperwork at the MCU; it's never ending."

"We haven't been waiting long at all, you're absolutely fine," Emma assured him. She gestured to her brother's glass. "I ordered wine for you. I hope that's okay."

"Ah, thank you. I definitely could use a little after a day like today." He smiled appreciatively and took a sip. "This is quite the place," he said. "Never been here before."

"I ate here once last summer with a friend. It is gorgeous, isn't it?"

Carter agreed and set his glass back onto the table with a soft clink. Jack nearly jumped out of his seat at the sound.

"Are you alright?" Emma laughed lightly, touching his arm.

Jack laughed it off as well, though it didn't sound as convincing as he had hoped. "Sorry," he cleared his throat, "I guess I'm a little jumpy." With a shrug of his shoulders the matter was dropped. Carter smiled a bit unsurely from behind the rim of his glass.

As jazz music gently tittered in the background, accompanied by the soft chatter of those around them, Carter shrugged out of his jacket and let it hang from the back of his chair. Jack's gaze strayed towards the black gun that was holstered at his side. He swallowed and looked away before Carter could notice.

The three of them ordered their meals and chatted while they waited. Emma was smiling as she talked about an incident that had occurred at one of the pep rallies at school earlier in the day, and Carter was laughing with amusement.

Jack, on the other hand, was nervously dotting at his brow and neck with the white cloth his silverware had been tucked in. Beneath the table, his hands trembled.

Carter had been a cop long enough to know that something wasn't right. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Emma continued on with her story, oblivious.

It was right in the middle of her story that Jack decided to interrupt.

"Listen," he cut in, "I uh, I have to go. I'm sorry."

Emma frowned and looked at Jack in confusion. She hadn't noticed his change in behavior and was caught off guard by his words. "What, why? Are you alright? You look pale."

"I'm fine, really. It's just . . . something's come up at work. I uh, I'm sorry to cut this short."

Emma's shoulders visibly drooped at the news. "It can't wait?" she pleaded.

Jack licked his lips. "It's really important. I just remembered. I'm so sorry." He stumbled out of his chair, his silverware jangling as he pushed himself back from the table. He felt the hot gazes of the strangers around him, staring at the sudden disruption.

Carter stood from the table as well, a gesture of politeness, as Jack hurriedly kissed Emma's cheek.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Jack," Carter said, offering his hand.

Jack, however, either did not see it or simply chose not to. "Yes, yes, it was a pleasure." He didn't meet Carter's eyes as he stood to leave. As he turned however, he nearly stumbled over the waitress as she came to bring their food. He put his hands on her shoulders to right her, thankful she hadn't dropped the platter. "Sorry, so sorry," he mumbled. He pushed past her and exited quickly as Emma stared after him, dumbfounded.

Carter lowered his offered hand and then slowly sunk down into his chair. Their food was placed, and after the waitress asked if they needed anything else, quickly dispersed.

With an elbow on the table, Emma leaned her head into her hand, embarrassed and confused. "Carter, I'm so sorry. Jack isn't normally like this. I don't know what's come over him."

Shrugging his shoulders, Carter watched Jack's retreating form until it disappeared from sight. "Hey, it's no problem. Stuff happens." He smiled briefly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Listen," he began, "where did you say he worked again? It's completely slipped my mind."

"Oh, Jack? He um, he works at a chemical plant, I think. He doesn't talk about it much."

"I see." Carter paused, poking at the expertly carved steak in front of him with his fork. He cocked his head to the side in a moment of contemplation, leaning closer. "Did he ever say what plant he worked at? There's about three in the immediate area."

"Hm," Emma thought for a moment, her brows furrowing. "I honestly don't know," she said with a small smile, embarrassed. She had been dating Jack for several months now and she didn't even know where he worked. "I assume it's somewhere in the Narrows. That's where he lives. Well, I'm fairly certain, anyway." She took a bite of her salad as her brother studied her.

"You don't know a lot about him, do you?"

Pausing, Emma swallowed. "Well, no, not really. He's pretty quiet. I—I think he had a traumatic childhood, you know, that sort of thing."

Carter nodded, but Emma could tell he wasn't convinced. From behind her wine glass, she saw him poke at his food with little interest.

"Why all the questions about Jack?"

Carter sighed heavily. Emma thought he looked worried. "I don't mean to be intrusive," he said, "I just find it a little . . . odd, that's all."

Emma smiled. "I appreciate your concern, but I promise its fine. You'll warm up to Jack in no time," she said with confidence.

He wanted to believe her words, but a strange feeling tugged at his gut. Carter considered mentioning to Emma that the chemical plant in the Narrows wasn't even _open_ at this time of night, but he held his tongue. He didn't want to raise any suspicions for her. But he'd be a fool for not noticing that something definitely wasn't right. He couldn't shake the feeling that he somehow knew Jack, had seen him somewhere before, perhaps.

"You've hardly touched your steak," Emma observed. "What's the matter? Do you not like it?"

"Oh, no, it's great." He smiled even though he hadn't taken a bite from it yet. "Hey, what's Jack's last name again? I don't think you ever mentioned it."

"Napier. Jack Napier." Emma paused when her brother didn't reply. "Tell me about Sarah," she smiled, hoping to change the subject. "Have you two settled on a name for the baby yet?"

Carter answered her questions amiably, but his mind was elsewhere. He had committed Jack Napier's name to memory and would definitely be running a background check on him in the _very _near future.

**x**

_Tonight is the night_.

In the bathroom, Marcus pulled his skinny black tie taught against his neck as he stared into the mirror, taking in his appearance with critical eyes.

He knew he was handsome. The whispers from the girls in the hallway were not so surreptitious as they thought. He reveled in the way they talked about him, the things they said behind his back when they thought he couldn't hear. It was not a fallacy to say that every girl wanted him. He exuded that sort of mysterious, bad boy charm that girls drooled over.

Cheerleaders waited for him by his locker, trying to flirt with him or hoping to ask him on a date. The athletic girls asked him to come watch their sports games, the preppy girls ogled him without embarrassment, and the Goth girls fucked him with their eyes, mentally undressing him each time he walked past. It was safe to say that every other girl that had fallen outside of a stereotype was under his spell, too. Marcus thought it almost a shame that he had zero interest in any of them.

His love for Emma was unlike anything that anybody had ever felt before, he was certain of it. It was cliché to say that it had been love at first sight, but it had been _something _at first sight . . . and it had indefinitely changed his life.

Marcus grinned into the mirror almost sheepishly as he thought back to their first encounter. He remembered the way he had looked down at her for the very first time. He had been taller than her even then, nearly five years ago. She was so delicate and small and so absolutely _timid_ for a teacher. He was attracted to her immediately, overwhelmed with a strange desire to dominate her and just . . . _possess _her whole. He had never felt that way about anyone before. It thrilled him knowing that she was older and yet he could so easily take her, throw her down, and have his dirty way with her.

He shifted and opened his mouth to let out a surprised groan when he felt his pants tighten. Leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, he watched himself slip a hand inside his pants. He grasped himself and jerked at the sudden touch. He imagined that it was her who was touching him instead.

In only three minutes, he had brought himself to completion with a choked groan and a breathless, satisfied grin. Above him, the mirror was fogged from his panting. The knuckles of his left hand were white from where he had gripped the edge of the sink. He paused for a moment, catching his breath.

Outside, snow was just beginning to fall, though the ground was so wet that he knew it wouldn't stick. The world was silent around him as he strode confidently towards the double doors of the school, climbing the steps two at a time. Having arrived late on purpose, he hoped to go unnoticed.

The halls were dark and dimly-lit as he made his way towards the gym. He could hear the music blasting from inside, the pulsating rhythm slow compared to the rapid beating of his heart. He was actually about to do this. With a deep breath he patted his pockets to make sure he had everything he needed.

Students were lingering in the hall outside the double doors to the gym, talking or making out with their dates. Marcus ignored them and focused on the strobe lights that flashed through the square windows on the door. When he opened them, he was accosted by pounding music, flashing lights, and a cloud of white smoke from the smoke machines around the DJ's booth.

The gym had been transformed into a faux winter forest. Tall, paper trees outlined the folded bleachers, and snowflakes—hundreds of blue, silver, and white paper cut-outs—dangled from the metal rafters. Soda cans sat in a bin surrounded by shaved ice, reminiscent of snow. In the back, tables had been set up and kids sat around them, talking and laughing.

Marcus navigated through the crowd of dancing bodies to locate Emma. Beneath the hot, glittering lights and the ear-splitting bass that pounded from the speakers around him, he began to feel anxious. Where was Emma? _She said she'd be here._ Marcus ran a hand through his short hair in frustration. _Did she leave early?_ _Did she make other plans with Jack?_

He nearly recoiled at the thought. Desperate, he decided to ask around if anybody had seen her. Emma was friend to many of her students, and he knew they all loved and respected her for it. He quickly sought out Laura, a girl from his English class who he knew was particularly fond of Emma. He asked her if she had seen their teacher.

Laura was a shy girl and never spoke much in or outside of class. With unruly brown curls, braces, and no sense of style, she was ignored by most. Her eyes widened in genuine surprise when she realized that Marcus, _Marcus Morrison_, was talking to _her_. She shifted in her ill-fitting purple dress and blinked repeatedly as if star struck. "W—what?" she stuttered.

"I _said_ have you seen Emma?" The irritation in Marcus's voice could not be mistaken. Laura's hopefulness vanished and she felt her shoulders sink with the weight of her disappointment. She had watched him approach her and had assumed he was going to ask her to dance.

"I don't know," she finally replied. Marcus had to lean in close in order to hear her above the pounding music. "She might be in the kitchen, in the cafeteria . . . ."

Marcus took off without another word. Forcefully, he pushed his way through the crowed, earning more than a few angry insults and "fuck offs" along the way. He wasn't listening though. The only thing he could hear was the drumming of his heart as it thudded against his ribcage. If she wasn't at the dance, he was going to go _ballistic_.

The halls were dark and empty as he maneuvered through them, breaking into a jog. Short of breath when he arrived, he pushed open the 'STAFF ONLY' door to the cafeteria kitchen where it flung against the wall with an abrupt bang.

The light above the serving counters was on, but the rest of the kitchen was shrouded in dark, looming shadows. His eyes scanned the kitchen quickly, but with growing anger he realized that it was empty. Cursing and stamping his foot like a petulant child, Marcus slammed his fist onto the metal countertop. The red, plastic lunch trays rattled upon impact.

He breathed heavily through his nose, furious and in utter disbelief. _She told me she'd be here. Where the _fuck_ is she?_ He pushed on the door with more force than necessary and seethed in the emptiness of the hallway. He put his handles to the wall and leaned his forehead against it. _I bet she's with Jack and they're__—_

Suddenly, a loud crash in the back caught his attention, and Marcus's head shot up at the sound. With renewed hope, he entered the kitchen once more and stood stock still, listening.

In the far corner, he heard someone let out a small curse, and he maneuvered around two tall, metal towers of rolling carts to discover the source of the sound.

Kneeling on the floor and scooping handfuls of spilled ice into a bucket was Emma. A large grin broke over his face at the sight of her, and he felt both relieved and excited. For a moment, all he could do was admire the view of her breasts from his position over her.

"Hey."

At the suddenness of his voice, Emma gasped and looked up.

"Oh . . . Marcus," she breathed, "you startled me." She pressed her lips together and then frowned. "You're not supposed to be back here," she said with just a hint of confusion.

"Laura was just telling me you could use a little help," he lied easily, shrugging his shoulders for effect. "And what a mess you've made," he teased, grinning. Emma watched him, almost warily, as he bent down and began helping her scoop the ice cubes into the bucket.

When he didn't say anything else, Emma sighed and resumed her work. "Yes, I suppose I have," she said quietly. Her words lingered in the air long after she had said them, and it suddenly struck her as unusual that Marcus was being so quiet. Normally he had a million things to say. She wondered what was on his mind tonight.

The two of them finished scooping the last bit of the ice into the bucket, and Marcus nudged the few leftover stray pieces beneath the ice chest with his shoe.

Emma smoothed out her dress as she stood, and Marcus couldn't help but stare appreciatively. Dressed in a simple, black knee-length dress, he thought she looked stunning. He wished she would remove the matching shrug though—he longed to see her soft, bare shoulders. Finally, she wore sexy, but appropriate black heels. Her hair was pulled high into a sleek ponytail, brushing the top of her back.

"What are you doing back here anyway?" he asked, hoping she hadn't noticed him staring. "I thought you were supposed to chaperone."

"I'm just helping out with whatever I can," she replied simply.

Marcus smiled. "You're doing quite a shitty job of it," he joked. When Emma didn't respond, he worried that he had overstepped his bounds. "You look pretty," he said quickly, hoping it would appease his former statement. He really meant it.

"Thank you." She folded her arms across her middle and looked away, uncomfortable. For a moment, nothing was said. "I should probably get back out there." She took the bucket and dumped it in the large, oversized sink, lastly refilling it with clean ice. "Would you mind carrying that pitcher?" She gestured to the counter where a fresh pitcher of pink punch sat.

"Wait," Marcus said, perhaps a little too hastily. She stopped and turned to face him, brows raised. "How about a toast."

It wasn't really a question, but Emma treated it as such and smiled in absurd confusion. "You want to toast? To what?"

"Just . . . a great evening. For everyone." He paused and lowered his head, knowing that she'd appreciate what he said next. "I know you've worked hard to put this all together. Your enthusiasm for the dance was contagious."

Emma stared at him, her head titled as she pondered his words. Come to think of it, this _was_ the first and only dance Marcus had ever attended, she realized. She let herself be genuinely flattered by his words. She _had_ worked hard, after all.

". . . Thank you," she said at length.

"Here." Marcus grabbed the pitcher she had gestured to and then retrieved two plastic cups. He filled them with punch as Emma stared at his back, perplexed by his demeanor. He turned to face her as he handed her a cup. "Here's to an . . . _invigorating_ night," Marcus said.

Emma stared at him, ignoring the odd gleam within his dark eyes. With a small but confused smile, Emma's cup met his and they drank.

From behind his cup, Marcus smiled lecherously.

Emma finished her drink in one long sip and then tossed her cup in the trash.

"_Whew_." Her face pulled at the acrid taste. "Strong stuff." She tried her best to ignore the bitterness and picked up the ice bucket once more. "Alright, time to go," she said. "You're really not supposed to be back here."

"Just here to lend a helping hand," Marcus said with slow deliberateness, watching her with dark eyes.

Emma frowned beneath his scrutiny. "Are you going to grab the pitch—_ooh_," she moaned, stopping mid sentence when she suddenly felt a wave of dizziness encompass her vision.

_Just here to lend a helping hand._ Marcus's words echoed in her head as she felt her legs wobble beneath her. _What in the world is going on?_ she wondered. Her mind felt foggy with barely-sustained consciousness and the edges of the kitchen were beginning to fade. She felt lightheaded.

"Marcus," she said, "Wh—what did you—"

"Sh." Suddenly, Marcus's face flooded her vision and he was kneeling before her, brushing the hair from her eyes. She hadn't even realized she had collapsed. "Sh, sh," he cooed, his hands slipping over her bare arms with revered slowness. "_I'll take care of everything_."

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **__Hello everyone! I realize that I haven't left an author's note in a while, so I just wanted to take the time to thank you guys for sticking with me and continuing to read _Get Out Alive_. I hope you guys have been enjoying to so far!_

_And on that note, I was wondering where some of my reviewers disappeared to! I know my updates for this story have been rather slow, but I'm hoping to pick up again with more regular updates; everyone's feedback definitely helps encourage me with that. So, to those of you who have stopped reviewing… let me know if you're still reading! I'd love to hear from you!_

_Is anybody noticing any striking similarities between Jack and Marcus's obsessive personalities, or is that just me?_ ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

She hadn't called.

It was close to midnight and Emma still hadn't called him. She was supposed to be back from the dance by now. What was taking her so long?

Jack slumped into the barstool at the counter—his usual place by the phone when he was waiting for her to call—and considered his options. _Come on, Jack, you know Emma, she probably just stayed late to help clean up or something._

Still, he couldn't help the uneasiness that fluttered within his stomach, like one-winged butterflies grasping for some kind of purchase. For some reason, the image made him blanch.

A little while later, he jolted awake. The apartment was pitch black now, and outside it was quiet. What time was it?

Across from him, the glowing green numbers on the stove clock read 3:52.

_Shit_. He stumbled out of his chair, needing to feel the blood in his legs again, and picked up the phone. How could he have dozed off for so long?_ I probably slept right through her call_, he worried.

Quickly, he dialed the numbers he knew by heart and waited with impatience for her to pick up. It didn't even cross his mind that she might be annoyed that he was calling at four AM. He just needed to hear her voice.

The phone rang a third time, then a forth, and then her sweet, kind voice told him to leave a message at the beep. Cursing, Jack slammed the phone down and dialed again.

When the same thing happened for a second time, he began to feel more angry than worried.

"Emma," he addressed her answering machine, "look, I don't know if you're like, sleeping or . . . whatever, but you promised me you'd call when you got back and you . . . haven't." He paused, sighing audibly against the phone as his shoulders drooped. He eased into the barstool once more as he cradled the phone against his ear. He spoke softly this time. "I just really miss you, alright?" He swallowed and tried his best to sound pleasant as he flattened his hand against the stable, staring down at it in the dark. "I hope you had a good time at the dance, and just . . . call me in the morning. I love you."

Gently he hung up the phone, repressing the desire to call her just one more time.

**x**

A loud, insistent buzzing was sounding in Emma's ear.

Annoyed at the noise, she tried to swat it away, thinking that it was a bee or some kind of fly, but when her arm did not move at her mental command, her brows furrowed in confusion.

Slowly, her eyes blinked open, and it was a moment before they could adjust to the darkness. Her head felt like it weighed a ton. Why did it feel so heavy? It was if it had suddenly turned to lead. She groaned and rolled onto her side, her lashes fluttering.

Next to her on the bedside table, her cell phone was on vibrate and buzzing insistently. She reached over to grab it, but was once again surprised when her arm would not follow her command. _What is going on?_

She fell back against the pillows helplessly, suddenly dizzy. _I should not have gotten up so fast . . . ._

Whoever was calling was just going to have to wait, because she was too tired to answer. She wondered what time it was then, and craned her neck to the side to check her alarm clock.

Except that it wasn't there.

_It must have fallen on the floor_, she thought. She glanced towards her window then, eyes half lidded, and suddenly jolted at the realization that _there was no window_.

_What the hell . . . ._

With her heat beating a mile a minute, Emma tried to urge her body into a sitting position, but was quick to discover the source of her problem.

Above her, her wrists were roped together and strung through the wooden spokes of the headboard. With a sound of distress, she tugged on her wrists but could not force them through the bindings.

Was this some kind of joke? Why couldn't she remember anything? Had Jack picked her up from the dance and taken her to his apartment? Her mind swam with all sorts of bizarre possibilities, and then, like a blow to the gut, it hit her, nearly knocking the wind right out of her.

Marcus.

"Oh, God," she murmured. He had spiked her drink. He had put something in her punch when she wasn't looking and now . . . .

And now he was flipping on the light switch and standing near the side of the bed next to her. Emma stared up at him through a blurred cloud of white, almost as if she were dreaming.

"How are you feeling?"

Emma tried to focus her vision on him, she really did, but he kept moving. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound would come out.

"Can't talk yet, can you? That's alright. It'll take a while for the drugs to wear off. Bet you're feeling pretty sleepy now, huh?"

Emma could do nothing but gape at him, like a fish out of water. She forced her eyes away from his looming frame and shut them when the room began to swim before her eyes and the ceiling started to cave.

"Mar—Marcus," she managed to slur. Her tongue felt so heavy, like it had been pinned down. Her throat, also, was uncomfortably dry. When he sat next to her, the bed dipping with his weight, her eyes rolled to him and he stared at her, frowning when he noticed the tears in her eyes.

"Please don't cry," he whispered softly. He sighed and touched her hair, tucking it behind her ear just like Jack had done so many times before. The very thought, however distant in her hazed mind, made her cry even harder. "Oh, Emma," he sighed again, almost as if he were sad.

The sudden weight of his body covering hers was sobering. Her eyes widened and her instincts kicked into full gear as he moved to straddle her hips—and yet her body refused to cooperate, doing nothing.

It was like waking up from a long, afternoon nap, right in between that place of being half awake and half asleep. Her mind would slowly but surely begin to function again, but her body was always five or ten seconds behind.

She was powerless as he began removing her dress.

She wanted to scream for all she was worth, but her voice was nonexistent, and she had never felt more helpless in her life. He unbuttoned her cardigan first, with all the reverence of an attentive lover and it made her sick, even as she fought to clear her vision from the white haze that surrounded it. The straps of her dress came next, and she felt them slide down her arms as Marcus slowly tugged them down, slipping her arms from them. When she felt his heavy, warm hands on her hips, she whimpered unintelligibly, begging for him to stop.

"Emma," he shuddered, "you have no idea how long I've been waiting to do this."

She was panicking badly, her breathing so out of control that she passed out before anything happened next, slipping into that warm, black oblivion as her eyes fluttered closed.

When she woke up for a second time, her dress was still on, her wrists were still tied above her head, and Marcus was sitting at her side, smoothing out her hair, staring at her.

He smiled gently at her. "Sleeping beauty awakes," he said.

Emma moaned, trying to lift herself into a sitting position. She felt much more conscious now, blurred dots no longer swimming before her eyes.

"Is—is this some kind of_ joke_? Untie me!" She twisted her wrists, indicating to the rope.

Marcus scoffed, looked offended. "You think this is a joke?" He snorted through his nose, furious. He looked away and took a depth breath, trying to gather his wits. Emma only stared at him in shock. "You think I risked my life to drug you, bring you here, tie you up, and you have the _audacity_ to think that this is a _joke_?" His eyes met hers. "I'm fucking in _love_ with you, Emma. Are you really that _blind_?"

Emma swallowed, shell-shocked by his words. She had known that Marcus liked her, she'd known it, but she had never realized just how much. _It's a simple crush_, she'd always told herself. But she felt sick to her stomach as she remembered all of the things he had said to her through the years and the new meaning his words suddenly took on. To think thst Jack had been right, all this time . . . .

"Marcus, you untie me this instant or I'll—"

"Or you'll do what? Assign me more homework? Maybe a _tutor_?" Marcus rolled his eyes. "That's all you've ever done. I've spent every fucking moment _thinking about you_ and you don't even give me the time of day."

Emma met Marcus's searing gaze. "I . . . I didn't realize . . ." she trailed off, unsure of how to finish.

When she looked away, Marcus sighed and his eyes softened. Moving closer, he reached out a hand to touch her chin. "I'm sorry, I . . . you're all I've ever wanted," he whispered to her, his eyes flitting to her lips as he traced them with his thumb. "You don't even know how long I've been dreaming of this moment. Being here. With you . . . alone."

Emma flinched from his touch and looked away. She didn't care that he seemed hurt by the action. She just wanted to get out of here . . . wherever 'here' even was. She let her eyes search the room, looking for something—anything—that she could familiarize herself with.

It was plain, with white walls and no pictures or decorations to speak of. The furniture was mismatched, as if someone had done a lot of shopping at garage sales. When Emma's gaze fell upon the familiar black duffle bag by the door, her eyes widened in shock.

"Where did you get that?"

"Your place," he said proudly, as if she would be impressed that he had broken into her home and taken her things.

"Why?" she breathed, both horrified and confused.

Marcus swallowed. His eyes had grown cold and dark again. "You're smart, Emma, I think you can figure it out."

"Marcus, I don't . . ." She swallowed as her heart thudded against her chest. It was so loud she thought that even he could hear it. "This isn't happening. This cannot be happening . . ." Her head fell back against the pillow and she closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them, everything would turn out to be a dream and she'd wake up in the comfort of her own bed with Jack by her side.

_Jack . . . ._

He'd find her, wouldn't he?

When the bed shifted and Marcus was suddenly straddling her waist, the heavy weight of reality was too much too bear. She looked up into his eyes, and he seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if what was happening wasn't actually real and he needed to savor the moment.

"You're so beautiful." Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he leaned in close and softly, with the most feather-light touch, kissed her cheek.

Beneath him, Emma was rigid, her heartbeat thudding in her ears like a jackhammer. She held her breath when she felt him sigh into her hair and bury his face in her neck. As his long body settled over hers, she suddenly shouted, twisting her body to escape him.

"Emma," he chided, breathless but smiling, "somehow I just knew you'd be a fighter." He laughed and slowly pressed his hips against hers, testing. She gasped, feeling his arousal, but could do nothing but whimper as she looked up into his eyes.

"Marcus, this isn't right," she said quickly, panting. "You have to stop. We can work this out, I promise you. We can get you help."

"I don't need any help!" he shouted, breathing hard. "I don't . . . _need_ any _help_," he said again, this time through gritted teeth. He swallowed and looked away, resting on his haunches. "You know, you're just like them." His hands clenched into fists. "You're just like my parents, and my friends, and the school counselor, telling me I need to get _help_. Fuck psychiatrists," he spat. "I'm _sane_! I'm fucking sane!" Suddenly he was in her face again, his hands on either side of her head. "Tell me I'm sane, Emma. I need you to say it, most of all. Please."

Emma could only gape at him, in shock at how quickly his moods were changing. He had gone from being disappointed to gentle to angry and then desperate in all under two minutes.

"Tell me I'm sane!" he shouted, gripping her shoulders and shaking her from her daze.

"Marcus, I . . ." For once, she didn't know how to respond. It was all a shock to her, and she was still trying to process what exactly was happening. Her brain just couldn't seem to catch up and always felt two steps behind.

"You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"No!" she said, perhaps a little too quickly.

"Are you lying, Emma?"

"Listen," she began, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. "If you untie me, we can talk about this. We'll work this out . . ."

Marcus rolled his eyes. "Untie you. _Right_. And then you'll run to the phone and call the police and I'll get my ass locked in jail for God knows how long." He paused, contemplating his words. "Of course, considering there are no phones . . . I guess that really isn't an option."

Emma paled and realized she needed to try a different approach. "Marcus, _please_ listen to me." She tried to straighten into a sitting position, but found that it was impossible with her hands strained above her head as they were. "Listen," she started again, swallowing down her panic. "If you love me the way that you say you do, then you'll let me go._ Please_, you don't want it to be like this."

He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger and frowned. "Don't I?" He cocked his head. "I have you exactly where I want you."

When he bent down to nuzzle her face, Emma stubbornly turned her head.

In retrospect, she figured it probably wasn't the wisest thing to do. She knew she was only succeeding in making him angrier, and she didn't really want to do that.

Before, Marcus was only innocently overbearing. That was it. He asked too many questions, tried to initiate contact which she didn't want, and was incessant in his quest to get her to come to one of the school's football games so she could cheer him on. It wasn't really all that bad. It had been more annoying than anything, she figured.

But now . . . _now _he terrified her. He wasn't just a lovesick student with a simple crush on his teacher like she had always viewed him to be. No, he was a grown man of nineteen now, a man who had purposely failed three years of high school just so he could have an excuse to be near her for just a little while longer.

It sickened her to her very core. Marcus was absolutely _mental_, and she did not want to aggravate that further.

Still, when his mouth and tongue latched onto her neck, she couldn't help but pull away. It was instinct.

He pursed his lips in annoyance and pulled back.

"I'm not playing games with you, Emma," he warned. "I don't think you realize . . ." he paused to groan, and Emma's eyes shifted to where a very obvious strain in his jeans was bulging, "… just how long I've been waiting for this. For you."

He shifted on top her once again and leaned down to kiss her mouth. Emma closed her eyes, breathing through her nose and pressing her lips together.

Secretly, she began working at the knot that tied her hands together above her head, twisting and pulling as Marcus's mouth moved closer to her own.

When Emma was just a girl—on every first Saturday of the month—her father would drive her and Carter to the nearest lake so they could spend the day fishing. With the Colorado Mountains and the tall pines set as their colorful backdrop and miles of crystal clear water laid out before them, they'd spend hours in their little canoe. Her father taught them which bait attracted what kinds of fish, how to properly hold their oars so as not to create too much of a splash and scare the sea life, and how to reel in a heavy fish when they'd finally made their catch.

Perhaps most importantly, however, her father had taught her how to tie a special kind of knot with the straps on their life vests. Because the buckles were always jammed—and her dad had never gotten around to buying new vests—he had slipped a sturdy rope through the clasps and taught her and Carter both how to properly tie it. It was a hard knot, something that wouldn't come undone when saturated in the water for long periods of time.

And it was the same knot that Marcus had made using the ropes that bound her wrists.

As Marcus's lips met hers, Emma bit down. Hard.

He reared back with a curse, and she took the opportunity to slip her hands from the loosened knot as she silently thanked her father for teaching her how.

She kicked him next, her foot finding his lower abdomen and sending him tumbling off the bed.

She was shaking as she pushed herself up and sprinted for the door. Her legs felt like Jell-o, and she felt like she was moving at the speed of molasses. It was all reminiscent of a horrible nightmare, like she couldn't move fast enough no matter how badly she wanted to or tried. She opened the bedroom door, raced down the hall, and quickly located the front door at the end of it. The various chains and locks on the door were slippery beneath her fingers—but perhaps that was just her shaking hands. She was panting as her fingers fumbled with the locks, and when finally she had urged the door open, the outside world had never been such a welcome sight as it was now.

Except, something wasn't right. In the back of her fogged, panicked mind, she was startled by the intensity of the weather. It was hot. And not just Gotham-on-a -sunny-day-hot. No, it was hot like Gotham-during-the-middle-of-the-summer-hot.

Except it wasn't summer in Gotham, it was _winter_. Which meant that wherever she was, it was definitely _not _Gotham.

It was bright, too, a complete shock to her eyes. _How long was I unconscious?_ she wondered.

The white-hot sun blinded her, but still, she did not stop running. Red dust and small rocks were kicked up behind her bare feet. Everywhere she looked, trees blocked her view. The long, winding dirt road that stretched out before her appeared to last forever, and the tall, dark pines on either side of it accompanied it for as long as the road did.

Emma considered taking off into the woods, but that thought died away. As much as she wanted to get out of Marcus's sight, she did not want to get lost, especially now that she realized she was clearly not in Gotham.

Everything was happening too fast. Emma was gasping for breath when Marcus came up from behind her and grabbed her. She screamed as she fought him, and it wasn't until Marcus had forced her to the ground—her head slamming against the gravel drive—that she was stilled.

Her eyes fluttered as dust particles floated around the two of them, suspended in the air from their scuffle. Emma blinked back tears as Marcus's face came into focus. She turned her head away as more tears streamed down her cheeks, but then gasped when a sudden sharpness in her skull threatened to blank her vision.

Tenderly she brought a hand to the back of her head, startled when her fingers came back covered in blood.

Marcus knelt next to her, a yellow halo surrounding his head where he was blocking the sun from her view. Emma thought that devil horns would have been more fitting.

"Look what you've done." He cradled her head in his hands, like the way a small child might after having found out his favorite toy had been broken. She could not bring herself to turn away from his touch. His thumb caressed the side of her face, brushing the tender skin near her ear.

Gravel shifted beneath his shoes as he shifted and bent down to pick her up. Lifting her into his arms, Emma was helpless to do anything but lean her head against his chest as it throbbed in pain and her vision swam. She felt sweat trickling over her brow and tasted it on her lips.

Marcus's hands were big and warm, holding her tightly as he carried her back inside the house. Emma tried to open her eyes long enough to get a glimpse of the outside of it, but she was blinded by the warm streams of sunlight trickling through the broken pines.

"Your dress is all dirty, Emma," he said, addressing her as if she were a child and he the amused parent. "We'll have to clean you up a bit, won't we?"

Emma attempted to nod her head "no," but the action hurt, her hair pulling at the sticky wetness near the nape of her neck.

"Am I… going to need stitches?"

"I hope not," he replied. "Because if you do . . ." Sunlight disappeared as the door was kicked closed. "I'm not taking you to the hospital."

He made sure to lock the door behind him—with a combination lock, no less, before carrying her into what appeared to be a living room. The blinds were drawn shut over the only window in the room, and the furniture was sparse. Emma's eyes rolled to the back of her head when Marcus set her down on the couch. It reeked of spoiled milk and dust.

"It hurts," she whined, barely above a whisper.

"You brought it upon yourself."

Emma turned to him, wincing at the action. He still had his arm around her waist while she lay on the couch, her head propped on the armrest. "You pushed me. You _hurt _me," she told him, almost as if she didn't believe it.

Marcus shook his head. "No, no!" he said, refusing her words. "Everything I do is because I _love_ you, Emma. God . . ." He withdrew his hand from around her waist and put them up as if to surrender. "Can't you see? I did this _for you_. I took you away from Gotham—that fucking, dirty city. It was going to_ ruin_ you. A city like that's too big for a small girl like you. And Jack . . . don't even get me started on that fucking _pig_."

Emma exhaled in shock. "Jack's half the man you'll _ever_ be," she spat.

"Jack's a _freak_," Marcus growled. "You'll thank me, one day, that I saved you from him."

"I highly doubt that."

Marcus shook his head, grinning. "Oh, Emma, you're so naïve. This is why I have to protect you."

"You don't_ have_ to do anything!" she cried. "Please, please take me back. This isn't right!"

With a frown, Marcus got up and went to stand near the window. She watched him peek between the plastic blinds, sending more dust scattering beneath the muted sunbeams. "You're not leaving," he said, almost petulantly. "So you might as well get used to that. I don't think you realize how long I've waited to have you. All these years . . ." He let out a small groan as he grabbed his crotch, adjusting himself with a grimace. "God, I get hard just _thinking _about it."

He laughed when he received no response, but when he turned around to face her, the sound of his amusement died in his throat.

The couch was empty.

"Emma!" His eyes darted around the room, fast as bullets. His heart began to beat faster within the cavity of his chest, but he wasn't worried. The house was securely sealed, that he was sure of. There was no way she was getting out. Not this time. Still, though. He didn't want her getting her hands on something she wasn't supposed to touch . . . .

He stopped and listened for a moment to the silence. Seconds passed, and he heard a rustling in the kitchen. He turned towards it and smiled.

"I know you're in there, Emma. You can't hide from me."

The moment he stepped over the threshold, something hard hit him square in the face, and Marcus fell back instantly, dazed.

On his back, he looked up amidst a blurred sea of black dots to see a frying pan clang to the floor next to him. Emma darted past him then, but he managed to reach out a hand and grab her ankle, pulling her to the floor. She gasped as she hit the hardwood, and Marcus growled as he crawled towards her, grasping her.

"Fuck!" he shouted, his nails digging into the skin of her thighs. "Why'd you have to do that?"

"Let go of me!" Emma was on the verge of tears, frantic to get away. She ripped her leg out of his grasp and got to her feet, but Marcus, despite swaying dizzily for a moment, was not far behind. He caught her by her hair and pulled her back into the nearest wall, trapping her against it.

They were both breathing hard, and Marcus had to blink away the blurred dots that blinded him before speaking. He couldn't believe she had hit him with a _frying pan_. He made a mental note to get rid of any items she might try to use against him in the future.

"Let go!"

Marcus, with his entire head throbbing in pain, was less sympathetic to her plea this time around. "Listen to me, Emma," he snarled, grasping her by her upper arms, "I am _never_ letting you go."

"Marcus," she cried, "this can't, _can't _work. People are going to notice I've gone missing! _Jack's _going to notice. And my job . . . I can't stay here forever. Someone's going to realize that something's not right and they'll find me!" Emma felt herself growing more confident as her speech progressed, knowing that she was right. "You can't keep me here. If you take me back then we can work this out, I promise you!" She knew how desperate she sounded, knew that her plea was probably falling on deaf ears, but still, she hoped.

And for a moment, her chest swelled with pride and she felt less frightened. Everything was going to be okay. Marcus would realize his mistake and he'd have to take her back. It was okay. It was going to be fine.

"That's cute," Marcus chuckled. She felt herself recoiling at the word and the tone of voice he'd said it in, almost as if he'd said it to his pet dog. "You think I haven't considered all this… you think that I've underestimated you, don't you? _Don't you_?" Marcus prodded when she didn't answer.

"I don't . . . ."

"No, no, it's alright. But," he stepped closer, lowering his head so they were eye-to-eye, "let's get something straight here, yeah?" Gently, he cupped her face, his thumb trailing along her lower lip. "It's _you _who's underestimated _me_."

Emma felt her heart take a tumultuous jolt into her stomach, but she didn't have time to question him when he grabbed her and forced her towards the door next to her. When he opened it, Emma screamed and tried to rip away.

"Please! Please don't."

Marcus laughed at her. "I'm not going to lock you in the basement, if that's what you're thinking."

She knew he was grinning as he pinned her arms behind her and urged her down the stairs, Emma leading the way.

The basement was stifling and dark, only serving to heighten her panic. If she thought it had been hot upstairs, it was nothing compared to the oppressive heat that she felt now. She could feel sweat beading along her neck as Marcus led her to the center of the room.

Her mind was reeling as she pictured all sorts of horrible scenarios about what he might have in store for her. He said she had underestimated him. What had he meant by that? He wouldn't kill her, that wouldn't make any sense. But she didn't want to be tortured, either—sexually or otherwise.

For a moment Emma wanted to cry, but she was too terrified to do anything but try and maintain her breathing.

_Just stay calm. You'll be okay, _she tried to console herself even though she didn't believe her words. Not by a long shot.

When Marcus moved away from her, Emma felt panic race through her and she reached for him. As bizarre as it was, she would rather have him near than not. She was terrified of the dark, had been since she was a child and had accidentally locked herself in the garden shed. She'd been trapped for hours, kicking and screaming. She shuddered at the very memory.

"Stay right there," she heard him say. He sounded like an excited little boy, she thought, and she hated him for it, hated that he was excited by this horror story that he was unfolding right before her very eyes. "You're not going to be expecting this," he smiled.

Above her, a single bulb that had been suspended from the ceiling was flicked on, and Emma gasped as her vision adjusted.

"No!"

She screamed and made to move forward, to save _Laura_—her very own student—who had been ruthlessly tied to a chair.

Tears stung the back of her eyes. This wasn't about her anymore. Suddenly, this was about Laura, the girl who had become like a daughter to Emma, the girl who secretly wanted to crawl into a hole because she was bullied at school, the girl who hated herself and struggled with a low self esteem, the girl who had turned to Emma in need of comfort and had graciously received it. She was Emma's brightest student despite being only fifteen, and, truthfully, one of her favorites.

And now Laura was trapped here, tied to a chair in this hell-hole of a basement because of _her_. Emma sobbed aloud, covering her mouth in disbelief. Tears trickled over her hand.

The room was too hot, too heavy, and she felt dizzy. But she refused to collapse. Laura needed her, and she would be damned if she let anything happen to that child.

Laura was crying, but her eyes seemed to widen in relief when she saw Emma. Behind the gag, she cried out for her, begging for her help, and Emma wanted nothing more than to do just that. Sweat was trickling down the girl's face; the silver clips that had once held her hair in an elegant up-do now hung in matted tangles around her face.

What had Marcus done to her?

She was still in her dress, which meant Marcus must have abducted her sometime during or after the dance.

"Marcus, let her go," Emma begged. "She has no reason to be here. This is between me and you." Emma paused, trying to fight the tremble in her voice. Her legs were deadweights. "Don't drag her into this, please. I'm begging you."

For a moment, Marcus almost seemed to reconsider. Then that awful, shit-eating grin broke across his lips and Emma's heart crumbled. "That's touching, it really is." He moved behind the chair, resting his hands on Laura's shoulders. "But I'm not stupid. I know how much Laura means to you—how _any_ of your students mean to you. But you wouldn't believe how easy it was to lure her into my car. All it took was a few whispered promises, lingering touches." He laughed, leaning forward to put his lips near Laura's ear. "You thought I was going to give it to you, isn't that right? You wanted me to be your first. You little _whore_," he grinned into her ear.

Emma had heard enough. "Don't you_ dare_ call her that again." She had never felt so much anger, fear, and hate directed at one person before. She clenched her hands at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.

"As I was saying," Marcus reached into his back pocket, retrieving a cell phone. It looked as if it had never been used. "I know how much Laura means to you, and if you'd like to see her live to see the next day," he tossed the phone to Emma, where she caught it with trembling hands, "you're going to call the school and tell them you quit, effective immediately."

Emma gasped, shaking her head. "I can't just quit! They're going to ask questions. This isn't how it's done—"

"Then think of an excuse!" he barked.

Emma stared down at the cell phone in her hands. She noticed it was 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Not that time really mattered. Not anymore.

"Look at me."

She did, staring into his eyes as Laura remained tied to her chair, listening to their exchange and quivering in terror. "You say _anything_ out of the ordinary, and I swear I will put a bullet in her skull without a second's hesitation." To prove his point, he picked up a gun he had laid on the floor behind the chair, cocking it and aiming it at Laura's head. "And when she's dead, I'll get more. How about Mandy, or maybe Kristin? I'll kill them, too, if that's what it takes."

Laura sobbed loudly behind her gag, hanging her head in defeat, but Marcus grabbed her hair and roughly jerked her head back. He wanted Emma to see the tears in her eyes.

Emma was trembling, and her mind was racing. But she did not think twice about making the call.

With shaking hands, she dialed the school's number. When the secretary picked up, Emma's voice was calm and reserved. She had to make this sound convincing if Laura was going to survive.

And so the conversation was brief. She explained that her parents had died in a tragic accident and she was moving to Colorado immediately to take care of the house and prepare for the funeral. Her resignation was to take place immediately. She apologized for the inconvenience as a flabbergasted Bethany tried to persuade her from leaving her job so abruptly.

When the phone call ended, Emma just barely managed to hold back a choked sob. She let the phone clatter to the floor.

"It's done," she said. "Now let her go."

With a tilt of his head, Marcus made a face of distaste. "That's not how this works, I'm afraid."

"Then what do I have to do?" Emma cried. "Please, please just let her go!"

"Oh, I plan to." She watched him stuff the gun in the back of his pants and then saunter towards her. He picked up the phone and closed her hand around it, staring into her eyes. "But there's just one more phone call that I need you to make."

**x**

Jack was pinned to the floor.

Bloodied hands held his limbs in place as more followed, trying to subdue his body as he struggled to fight them off. He begged for them to stop, tried to meet their gazes so he could plead with his eyes—but there were no faces to meet. The strangers—they had no eyes—only empty black sockets and shredded, bloody mouths.

When he could no longer fight, when his limbs were too weak to move another inch and his mind weary with panic, Jack suddenly realized that the faces were strangely _familiar_.

It was his victims who stood over him, leering at him through crudely stitched smiles as blood trickled from their mouths. They smelt like corpses, he thought.

And then he realized they _were_ corpses.

He gaped at them, at these monsters who had resurrected themselves from their untimely graves. He had killed them, every single one of them—and he remembered it like it had been yesterday. And yet here they were, dirt and tufts of grass clinging to their rotted frames.

They were laughing at him, laughing at him just like he had laughed at them right before he'd gutted them like animals.

And that's what terrified Jack the most. That was the thing that scared him most of all—the fact that he had_ liked _killing them. He'd enjoyed hearing their screams, their desperate attempts at trying to get away. He had reveled in it. He had never felt more at home, more happy. Sitting there on his knees, drenched in blood . . . he had never felt more _alive_.

And then he was laughing with them, even as the dissembled corpses he had killed laughed from above him, coughing blood on him and tears streamed down his face.

Then, the phone rang.

Jack woke with a start, gasping for breath. It took a moment for him to compose himself, for him to realize that he was in his bed, the drapes were closed, it was dark out, and no dead corpses had come back from their graves to kill him.

He exhaled breathily, his bare chest glistening with sweat. His sheets, tangled around his legs like fishing nets, were thrown to the floor as he fumbled for the cell phone on his dresser. Emma. _It's Emma_, he realized. He nearly cried at the sudden relief that filled him.

"Emma?"

"Jack." She sounded hesitant. "How are you?"

"Oh, God, I just . . ." he paused, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to tell her what had just happened, the things he had just seen. But he knew he couldn't mention the nightmare. The sound of her voice was already helping to soothe his anxieties. "I'm so glad you called. I've been worried sick about you."

"I know, I'm sorry. I was . . . exhausted when I got back from the dance last night."

Jack didn't say anything. Too tired to call? Did she even know that he was frantic half the night, worrying about her, waiting like an idiot near the phone for her to call?

Still, he couldn't bring himself to be mad at her.

"It's okay," he said at last. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was only five. "It's just good to hear your voice," he said with obvious relief, letting out a sound that was something between a half sob and half sigh. "Have you eaten yet?" he asked, clearing his throat. He flicked on the light and began searching for a shirt to put on. "Do you want go out for dinner?"

It took a moment for Emma to reply. "Jack . . . I need to tell you something."

Jack paused his search, sitting back down on his bed with a sigh. "Sure, what is it?"

Again, it took her a few moments to speak. She seemed upset. Jack's muscles tensed almost instantly. Something was wrong.

"What is it?" he pressed again, this time with a bit more force.

"I—I'm breaking up with you, Jack."

The words hit him like a bullet to the head. Jack was at a loss for words. His mouth went dry, his throat tightened, and his heart dropped to the very depths of his stomach. _What?_

"You're what?" he said stupidly. He didn't know what to say. She was joking, right? Why on earth would she ever say that to him? He loved her. He loved her more than anyone or anything. How could she—

He _needed_ her. She had to know that, had to know that he would be nothing without her.

He heard her crying, but he didn't understand. "I'm sorry, Jack. It's not—not working out." When she choked back a sob, he felt very much like doing the same.

"I love you," he gasped, clutching the phone to his ear as if it were his lifeline. "I love you more than the world." Trembling he got to his feet. He needed to pace, to move. "Why are you doing this?"

He needed to know. What had he possibly done to make her want to leave him? He'd been nothing but perfect, he was certain of it. He showered her with gifts, with love, with everything she could ever need.

"I just . . . I can't do this anymore. I'm so sorry," she choked. "I truly am. I wish I could . . . ." she trailed off, unable to finish her sentence because she was crying so hard.

Jack wanted to crumple to the floor at the absurdity of it all. "You can't be serious," he whispered. He refused to believe it. He wouldn't let this happen. "No," he said firmly. "No. No, no, no, no." He shook his head to affirm his words. "We can make this work, Emma. Don't back out on me. I'll do anything for you, you know I will. Just tell me what you want me to do, please. _Don't you dare back out on me_."

He was crying. Tears streamed down his face, but he hardly noticed them, hardly noticed the way his hands were clenched so tightly into fists that his arms were shaking.

"There's nothing you can do," she said. "And I . . . I never want to see you again."

And then, she hung up.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_ _Some of you may have noticed how often Marcus repeats the phrase, "Do you know how long I've been planning this?" etc, and that is not a mistake on my part. I wanted to get across the fact that for the past four years, this is literally the only thing Marcus has ever thought about—this plan to take Emma, and make her his. It's consumed him whole, which is why he keeps repeating it, for Emma's benefit, so she can truly understand the extent of his "love" for her._


	9. Chapter 9

Copper.

Jack could smell it even before his eyes fluttered opened.

He groaned when he came to, blinking as his eyes tried to pry themselves open. His head was throbbing. Why was his head throbbing? And why couldn't he remember anything?

Something cold and hard was pressed against his cheek. The kitchen floor. He was lying on the kitchen floor. Why?

Arms shaking, he tried to lift himself onto his elbows, but a tearing pain suddenly coursed through the left side of his face when he pulled his cheek from the floor, and he gasped, falling back into position.

Fresh blood began to pool around him from the open wound, and he could taste the warm, wet blood on his lips and tongue as it slid down his jaw.

His head throbbed so badly . . . what had he done? Jack thought back to the last thing he could remember. He had just gotten off the phone with Emma, and he could remember being angry, distraught. He had stumbled into the kitchen and taken a large steak knife from the drawer. He remembered screaming—loudly—and reopening his scars, tearing into them with his fingers and nails, ripping the flesh from his face. He must have hit his head on the stove when he'd finally passed out.

And now he lay in a pool of his own mauled flesh and half-dried blood.

He felt like crying, but, try as he might, no tears would come.

Delicately he peeled his cheek from the floor, nearly screaming at the pain. He let out a strained gasp instead and breathed heavily through his noise. The entire inside of his mouth—raw and tender and bloody—burned like copper fire, like someone had washed it with hot acid. He moaned, trying not to move his tongue as blood settled in between the crevices of his teeth and slid over his parted lips. He couldn't even close his mouth without crying out.

When he got to his feet, he wobbled helplessly, like a small child who'd yet to learn how to walk.

_Shit. _He could feel his stomach churning and knew he might pass out again. He gripped the edge of the counter with desperation, the veins in his arms pulsing from his exertion.

"Emma," he heard himself sob aloud, to no one but himself.

Blindly he stumbled through the dark and into the bathroom to assess the damage, his throat thickly coated in all the blood he'd swallowed. Despite as much pain as he was in, he couldn't wait to look in the mirror, couldn't wait to see the damage he'd inflicted this time.

When he flicked on the light, momentarily blinded by the florescent brightness and shielding his eyes with his arm, he shivered, feeling the hairs on his arm stand on end. Outside, he could hear the sounds of the city just below his window, people chattering, cars honking, the occasional shout, the drone of cars as they drove past. It was almost funny to him, funny that not one of them knew that in apartment 413, there was a man who was using self-mutilation as a way of blocking out the pain of losing the only thing that had ever meant anything to him.

When Jack finally garnered the strength to lift his head and stare into the mirror, he realized for the first time ever—just as a rush of adrenaline fear coursed through him like an electrical shock—that he might have, just maybe, inflicted too much damage this time around.

And strangely, he didn't care.

**x**

Emma was shaking with tears as she clutched the phone in her fist, trying to regain her composure. She had to stay strong. She had to stay strong for Laura. Right now, that was all that mattered.

"Oh, Emma, that was so good." Marcus applauded her with just a hint of a smile. "For a moment you had even _me _convinced."

"Damn it, Marcus, let her go right now, please! I did what you asked."

"You did." Marcus's face softened, and, tucking the gun in the back of his jeans, he walked towards her and offered her a tender smile as he cupped her face in his hands. "And I'm so proud of you," he whispered, staring into her eyes that were filled to the brim with tears. She had never looked more beautiful and helpless. She was at his complete mercy and he loved it. Carefully he lowered his hands and grabbed her wrists, pulling them behind her back so her wrists touched. "But let's be honest, Emma." Suddenly her wrists were pulled taught against each other, and she gasped and tried to pull away when Marcus had zip-tied them together. "You didn't really think I was going to let go the only source of leverage I have, did you?"

Emma could feel her lip trembling, and sweat began to bead along her brow. "Marcus, no, _no_!" She struggled to pull her wrists from their binds, but Marcus grabbed her waist and held her still.

"You're so naïve," he said, almost cruelly, leaning in close so his hot breath washed over her ear, "thinking that everything would fall into place so perfectly. This is why I have to protect you."

"Emma!" Laura cried. "Emma please help me! Please!"

The two of them jolted at the sound of Laura's voice. She had managed to slip out of her gag and it hung around her neck, wet with her spit.

Marcus turned to face her, annoyed. He did not speak to her, and instead returned his attention back to Emma.

"This is for your own good," he told her seriously. With his free hand, he brushed the hair back from her eyes, and she tried to bite him.

In response, he only smiled, like he thought that was cute. "I didn't know you had that in you. I still have so much to learn about you." She felt his hands tracing her back tenderly, much like a lover would, and it was so bizarre that she could do nothing but remain stock still.

Behind him, Laura's sobs were growing louder, and she continued to beg Emma for help.

Emma felt powerless, and knew that anything she said to try to convince Marcus to let the girl go would be futile. She felt tears coming to her eyes, but tried to will them back.

Marcus saw them too, and he shushed her as he took her firmly but gently by the arms and began guiding her up the stairs.

She fought him, not wanting to leave Laura alone in the dark, hot basement, but Marcus's strength was beyond what even she had expected, and his fingers digging into her arms was a constant, painful reminder of that.

"Don't make me hurt you," Marcus laughed, but behind the teasing jest, Emma feared that he might not be kidding. He claimed to love her, but to what extent? Would he be willing to inflict pain on her if he found it necessary?

Laura screamed at the top of her lungs just as Marcus had guided Emma to the last stair at the top, and Emma twisted in Marcus's grip, trying to turn back to Laura to address her one last time.

"Laura! I'll get you out, just stay calm. I promise I'll get—!"

The basement door was slammed shut before Emma could say "help." She cried out in frustration, and with her hands locked behind her back, could do nothing but stomp her foot like a child. When Marcus moved to console her, Emma pulled herself away, looking him in the eye as her own were filled with rage.

"Stop this!" she cried. "Stop this stupid game! _God_," she hung her head in anger, trying to calm her beating heart. When she looked up again, there were tears in her eyes. "Can't you see that you're hurting her? She's just a _girl_, Marcus. Please, just . . . let her go. I'll do whatever you want but please let her go."

For a moment they only stared at each other, but Emma was forced to look away when Laura's screams from the basement kept growing louder.

Marcus took her arm without a word and guided her back to the bedroom. She didn't fight him, and instead, prayed silently that her words might have had some kind of effect on him.

In the bedroom, he closed the door behind him and sat Emma down on the bed. She sat willingly, even though her heart was racing as Marcus stood in front of her. She thought he might sit down, but instead he stood there, taking hold of her chin and lifting it so she could meet his gaze.

He seemed strangely at a loss for words, and for a moment he simply studied her eyes, searching for what he wanted to say.

"Think about what you're doing, Marcus," she whispered to him, holding his reverent gaze. "She's just a child."

His hand moved from her chin to her hair, and Emma let him sift his fingers through it, hoping that he was perhaps having a tender moment and was considering her words.

At last, he spoke. "What I do is in your best interests. I need you to understand that."

"What you do is in _your_ best interests," Emma corrected him. "Don't try to fool me into thinking this is all for me, this . . . _thing _that you're doing. You're selfish and cruel. The only person you've ever cared about is yourself."

"That's a lie!" Marcus shouted, releasing her hair. "I swear . . ." he turned from her to pace the room. "One day you'll see. One day you'll realize just how much I've sacrificed. For you. Because I love you." He spun on his heel to face her again, voice softening. "I love you so much." Emma watched him approach, fearful that he wanted to show her how he felt, but he only leaned forward to release her of her bonds, cutting the tie that had bound her wrists together. They made brief eye contact before Emma looked away, rubbing her wrists.

Marcus began backing towards the door. "Don't move," he instructed, and Emma didn't respond. She heard the door close behind him.

Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. Then Emma realized she had been waiting for an hour. It was the longest hour of her life. After that she lost track of how long Marcus had been gone. There was no clock to specify the time, no windows to indicate the fading daylight… it was the equivalent of being locked in a prison cell, she thought.

And she wanted out.

Hesitantly she stood from the bed, as if the slightest sound of her feet touching the floor might cause Marcus to come bursting in. But he did not come. The room was silent, and she could hear nothing from the other side of the door. For a moment she simply stood there, her joints stiff from having sat so rigidly for a full hour.

At last she moved towards the door, trying not to get her hopes up. She knew it was probably locked, but Marcus had been gone for so long, and if she was to escape, now might be the only time. She had to try, at the very least.

Her hand touched the doorknob, pulse racing, heart pounding . . . .

And the knob turned. As if by instinct, the hairs on her arm stood on end, and she slowly, slowly pushed it open, listening with the utmost attentiveness to any sounds coming from the other side of the door. She heard nothing.

_Had Marcus left? _

Just then, a chilling thought suddenly occurred to her, and it stopped her heart and made her halt in her tracks.

_Laura is quiet too. _

The implication of that thought was almost more than she could bear. What if Marcus had done something? What if he'd killed her?

She decided she needed no further motivation; she had to get to Laura.

She pushed the door open wide with determination, and then as an afterthought closed it behind her. If Marcus really had left, she didn't want to draw attention to the fact that she had left the room if/when he should return. If he really had left, she had no idea as to when he might come back.

Almost instinctively her eyes flew towards the front door. She could escape. He was nowhere in sight, and she could have easily opened the door and then made a run for it.

But she knew that was futile. There were chains across the door and heavy bolts. It was unlikely she'd be able to get them unlocked.

Most importantly, she wasn't even going to think of leaving without Laura. They'd cross that bridge when they got there.

Emma hurried to the basement, ripping open the door and descending two steps at a time. Her heart was racing. She'd never been very religious, but in those few seconds, she prayed.

_God, please help me. _

When she reached the bottom of the stairwell, Laura was there—gagged and bound—and Emma wanted to retch. She'd never felt so sick to her stomach with guilt and shame and pure anger. How could Marcus—how could _anyone_—do this to such a young, innocent girl?

_It's all my fault. _

She tried pushing that thought away as soon as it entered her mind. There was no time to lay blame. Only escape. That was all that mattered.

She rushed to Laura's side and knelt in front of her, putting a hand on her knee to rouse her from sleep. The girl jumped and tried to recoil at first—but when she realized that it was Emma she burst into tears and shouted something intelligible from behind her gag.

Emma raised a finger to her lips to indicate for her to be quiet. Laura whimpered as Emma removed the gag.

"Emma, I'm so scared," Laura cried, her voice cracking. "Please get me out, please, _please_."

Emma tried her best to soothe her. "It's okay, you're going to be fine," she whispered as she quickly began work on the knots that had bound Laura's ankles to the chair legs. "We're both going to get out here. I promise. We'll be okay."

Vaguely, Emma realized her words of comfort were to calm her own anxiety more than Laura's. _God_, she was so nervous; her hands were in a constant battle with her mind. She could not get them to stop shaking, and her palms began to sweat when the ropes around Laura's ankles would not come undone.

"Shoot," she whispered under her breath. She knew Laura was watching her intensely, and it only caused her more panic.

"Please," Laura pleaded.

Emma stopped to look up into her eyes, and the gaze she was met with was filled with such sadness that she wanted to cry. Instead, she nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. Emma shifted on her knees and moved to the back of the chair to work on Laura's tied wrists instead.

Unfortunately, she was met with even more resistance.

She paused to hold back a frustrated sob. How was it that she could untie her own wrists but could not untie someone else's?

Laura realized what was happening and spoke, her voice shaky but somehow firm.

"You need to find something to c—cut the rope." She swallowed. Sweat dripped onto her brow.

"Okay," Emma nodded, getting to her feet. "Okay, something to cut the rope."

Her eyes scanned the basement for anything of use. There was random junk piled all along the walls, but it was far too dark to see anything. She searched anyways, frantic hands stumbling over objects she could scarcely name. At one point she knew she had touched sandpaper, and later she felt damp blocks of wood—and that gave her renewed hope, because if there was wood, and sandpaper, then there also must be a saw. Somewhere.

She dug with fervor, but was quickly becoming discouraged. "It's all junk!" she cursed under her breath, her panic reaching new heights. She pushed a box aside with her foot and dug through another.

Then, without warning, the overhead light switched on, and Laura let out a blood curdling scream. Emma spun, watching in horror as Marcus descended the stairs. In his left hand he was carrying a_ saw_, the very same thing Emma had just been searching for.

It swung with leisure at his side, as if it were nothing more than a child's play toy. Emma swallowed as she watched him, his heavy gaze fixed on Laura. He approached her slowly, unsmiling.

_I have to do something. I have to do something. I have to do something. _

Her legs felt like lead.

When he stood towering in front of Laura, Emma watched him. _Why isn't he saying anything?_ His silence was unnerving, and Laura could do nothing but stare into his eyes, trapped in the depth of his heady gaze.

Emma at last found her voice, and it cracked like glass when she spoke.

"Stop," she said.

At the sound of it, he turned to look at her, his gaze hardening. Emma took a step back in surprise. Her heart skipped a beat.

"I think," he started, his voice quiet and deep with concentration. He averted his eyes to the floor. "I think Laura has served her purpose."

Emma and Laura exchanged frantic glances, clueless as to what he was talking about.

He turned back towards the young girl. "And now I think it's time for her to go."

Emma's eyes widened as Marcus raised the saw. _No._

She shouted, louder than she'd ever shouted before, and consequently drowned out Laura's piercing scream.

Marcus hadn't seen her coming. When she rushed towards him, covering the short distance between them, he hadn't been expecting for her to fling her body over his with such strength, effectively tackling him and sending them both sprawling to the ground.

They wrestled for dominance. Emma bit him, her teeth leaving imprints on the underside of his jaw, and Marcus growled, backhanding her in a moment of rage. The saw lay temporarily forgotten on the floor, and Emma, half pinned under Marcus's weight, tried to reach for it. In the background, Laura was screaming.

It was a sickly, gut-wrenching scene, and in those moments, time seemed to pause, and Emma saw everything in slow motion.

She continued to wrestle with Marcus, but he was much larger than her, and even as adrenaline-filled as she was, her strength was no match for his. But still, she tried. She would not give up. A burst of hope flushed through her when, for a second, she was about to have the upper hand. All she needed to do was get him to shift his weight just a little—

But then, suddenly, Emma's eyes widened when Marcus pulled out a gun. Laura's crying screams grew to a crescendo, a shot rang out, missing its target in the midst of Emma and Marcus's struggle, and then another shot was fired… and suddenly everything was silent.

Emma pushed Marcus off her with frantic haste, the hairs on her arm standing on end. She lay against the concrete floor, staring at the ceiling in shock as she tried to catch her breath. No. _No, no, no, no._

She knew, _she knew_ the outcome, but still, she got to her feet, she had to see, had to make sure….

Laura had been shot in the head, almost dead center in her forehead, and Emma could do nothing but sob aloud, horrified, as blood trailed down her front in a gushing mess, marring her beautiful dress. Her head hung limply against her chest.

Emma barely had time to turn her head away before she had vomited the contents of her empty stomach. She gasped, tears streaming down her face, and then viciously recoiled when she felt Marcus's hand on her shoulder.

"_Don't _. . . don't touch me!"

She fell heavily to her hands and knees, not even registering the pain of her scraped knees or the cold concrete. She was numb.

"Why?" she heard herself crying. "Why did you do that?"

She could feel Marcus kneeling next to her. He made no move to touch her. "Because I had to. She was becoming a distraction. It was the right thing to do."

Emma tried processing his words, but all she could hear was the sound of the gunshot ringing in her ears, the sound of Laura's desperate screams….

_I hate you. _

She didn't realize she had said the words aloud until Marcus had grabbed her by the back of her neck and was pulling her to her knees in front of him. She felt like clay in his hands, and if he hadn't been holding her neck in a vice like he was, she was sure it would be drooping against her chest, much like Laura's was now.

"Tell me I had to do it," he snarled. "Tell me it was the right thing to do."

The room was spinning. It was hard to meet his eyes. When he gave her a rough jerk, pulling her even closer to his face, everything shifted into startling clarity. They were both kneeling in front of each other. She could see the sweat beading along his brow. Her chest was heaving as she stared into his eyes with pitiful defiance.

He shook her again. "_Tell me_!" he roared.

"You had to do it," she sobbed. She didn't believe her words for a second, but she saw Marcus's pleased smile and knew that, even though she doubted her words, he had still broken her.

"Tell me it was the right thing to do," he said again, this time more gently.

Emma swallowed, tasting salt. She shook her head.

"Tell me it was the right thing to do," he whispered, bringing her closer, his fingers tightening around the back of her neck. "Say it." His hot breath fanned across her face, warming her tears, and she closed her eyes.

"It was the right thing to do," she whispered at last. This time she could not meet his eyes.

Marcus smiled, feeling elated, feeling _excited_, and scooped Emma's limp body into his arms. He carried her up the stairs, into the bedroom, and set her on the bed. She curled into a ball. She was crying and confused.

Marcus was grinning as he gently closed the door and left.

He would not return for three days.

**x**

It was past midnight when Jack, under the cover of darkness, drove to Emma's house. He was mildly tipsy, but he drove straight as an arrow. Alcohol had almost the opposite effect on him than it did for everyone else. It made him bitterly sober. It was why he almost never drank it.

This night, however, he'd had more than his usual share. He'd spent the past 56 hours holed up in his apartment. He hadn't showered, and he'd scarcely eaten. He hadn't once opened the blinds to let in the sun. He felt like a living corpse.

On Wednesday, he woke up at six PM and showered, finally washing away the blood that had dried to his skin in the aftermath of his incident. He scrubbed his skin until it was red. In the kitchen, he fixed himself a bowl of soup, since his mouth was still tender and raw. He sipped it at the counter in silence and thought.

He was going to see her tonight, he decided. He was going to talk to her and figure out what he had possibly done wrong. He thought back to all the things he had said to her in the course of their whirlwind relationship and wondered. Where had he crossed the line? What might he have said to possibly offend her? What had he done?

Thinking made his head hurt, especially because there seemed to be no possible answers to his questions. He needed to do something, so he spent all evening calling her like had had been for the past three days. When she did not pick up, he knew it was time for the next step.

It was 12:05 when he left the apartment. The streets were empty as he drove to Emma's house. It was almost as if the city itself had decided it needed to lie down and rest. Not a soul, not even a light was present.

It felt as if he were the only man in the world.

When he arrived in Emma's neighborhood, he noticed her car was in the driveway. _Good_, he thought. She's home.

He walked up the steps to her front porch and hesitated before knocking on the door. Suddenly he felt nervous. What if she was so angry with him that she refused even to answer the door? He hadn't thought of that. He didn't know what he'd do if she refused to see him.

He took a deep breath and exhaled. He was here, and he wasn't going to turn back now.

He knocked three times, loudly, in case she was asleep.

For a while he heard nothing. He waited impatiently, shifting from one foot to the other, and then he knocked for a second time. Again he was rewarded with silence. He pressed an ear against the door, listening. He pulled out his cell phone then and called her, blocking his number so she would not be able to see who it was if she checked her caller ID. It rang four times, and then her answering machine clicked on and he could her hear sweet voice just barely through the door.

_What the fuck is going on? _

He felt more angry than hurt, and he had to restrain himself from kicking in her door in anger. He turned the knob to see if it would open.

It was locked.

He left the porch and circled the house, wondering if there was another way inside. On the back porch, the sliding glass door was also locked, and he abandoned it in favor of checking the windows.

Jack felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach when he began to realize they were all locked. There was no way he was getting in through there.

He went back to the porch and tried to peer into the living room; the curtains were stubbornly blocking his view.

Cursing under his breath, he was about to leave when a thought suddenly dawned on him.

_Emma kept a spare key in the flowerbox beneath the windowsill. _

It was something she had mentioned to him in passing over dinner one evening—she probably didn't even remember that she'd said it in the first place—but Jack reveled in his stroke of luck when he did at last find the key, hidden only by a thin layer of dirt. He thought that she must have used it recently.

Quietly he unlocked the door; he did not want to frighten her.

When he stepped inside, something immediately seemed off, and he frowned, though it couldn't quite place his strange feeling.

He walked slowly through the house, avoiding the parts of the floor that he knew would creak if stepped on. He'd spent a lot of time here with Emma, he realized.

In the living room, a blanket lay on the couch and a book was laid open on the coffee table next to an empty mug with a spoon. Jack felt himself smiling, picturing Emma sitting there, reading and drinking tea.

When he went to inspect the kitchen, there were very few dishes in the sink—two bowls, a plate, and nothing more—and a box of graham crackers on the counter next to a jar of honey. Nothing odd there.

As Jack tip-toed towards the bedroom, his heart beating a mile a minute despite his best efforts to stop it, he imagined what he would say to her, how he would wake her. Would she be angry to see him? Relieved? Sad?

There was no way to know. He felt so in the dark about everything. All he wanted was to apologize and promise he'd never wrong her again, whatever it was that he had done.

As the door opened, however, Jack's heart sank to the very pit of his stomach for a second time that night.

She wasn't there.

Not only that, but the bed was made, too, which meant that she hadn't possibly just slipped out of it and had maybe gone to use the restroom.

He checked it just in case. The light was off and the bathroom was spotless. She was not inside.

With a heavy, defeated sigh, he sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

_Where is she? _

It was as Jack was sitting on the bed when it suddenly dawned on him why the house seemed odd.

It was _freezing_.

He went to the thermostat in the hallway and checked the temperate. It was 54 degrees. There was no way Emma would have the heat turned down so low, not in the dead of winter, and not when he knew for a fact that she disliked the cold.

Had she maybe left for a few days? Was she so devastated by the end of their relationship that she had left town? Had she maybe gone to her parent's house in Colorado? Was she staying with a friend?

Jack went straight for the living room to check her messages to see if he could learn anything. The red light on the machine was blinking, and when he pressed the button to play them back, the automated voice informed him that she had eight new messages. The first three were from Jack, and he was too disgusted to listen to his own desperate, pleading voice, and he quickly deleted those. The next message was silent and Jack figured somebody had accidentally dialed her. He quickly pressed the skip button and listened to the next message.

It was from Carter.

"Hey, Em, it's me. Listen, don't be mad, but after the other night—when Jack left so abruptly from dinner—I got a little suspicious and I... I ran a background check on him. And I know that you're going to be upset with me for that but I just… I wanted to tell you because... well, I can't be sure, and I don't want you to worry… but something's not right. I can't find Jack in the system anywhere and it's like... it's like he doesn't even exist. You did say his last name was Napier, right?" In the background, a phone rang. "Anyways, I gotta go, but please, please call me back as soon as you get this."

Jack couldn't breathe. He played the next message. It was left only six hours after the first one. "Emma, it's me again. I don't know where you are, but I think you need to come down to the station as soon as you can. I think Jack has been involved in some illegal business and just… please hurry. And call me."

Jack was breathless and breathing hard by the time he got to the next one. Carter sounded like he'd just run a marathon. Wherever he was the wind was blowing hard. "Emma, I don't know where you are, or why you're not answering your phone, but whatever you do, _do not call Jack_. Something's happened—I found something out. I'm sending an officer over right now to pick you up. If anyone comes to the door who's not a cop, don't answer it. I'll see you soon and I'll explain everything. Please be safe."

The last message on Emma's answering machine was from her mother, and Jack let it play through without even registering the woman's words.

All Jack could do was gawk in silence. It was Carter. _He _was the reason why Emma had broken up with him so abruptly.

_God, what did they find out? _

The police couldn't possibly have linked Jack to the murders by the docks that night. He had left absolutely no traces.

Then, realization struck him.

There was only _one _way he could possibly be linked to the murders, and, with growing horror, Jack realized his worst fears had come true.

Carter was the police officer who had seen him running away. It was why Jack had been so fidgety at dinner, when Emma had introduced the two of them. Jack had recognized Carter as the very same cop he had run from. And now Carter had made the connection, too.

It was Carter who'd told Emma to break up with him, it was Carter who'd exposed the truth.

Jack slammed his fist against the table in anger, suddenly furious. His whole body shook with electric anger. He wanted to kill someone.

He wanted to kill Carter.

Jack left the house in a rage—slamming the door behind him and taking Emma's spare key. It was well past one in the morning when he finally began the drive back to his apartment. Snow had begun to fall. For twenty minutes he could do nothing but sit in his car, fuming. At last he decided he needed to return home and devise a plan.

The first thing he was going to do was find out where Carter lived and kill him. Then he was going to find Emma and somehow convince her that everything she had heard about him was a lie. There was still time to rectify the situation, he decided. If he chose his words wisely, maybe falsified some police reports somehow—somehow he had a feeling he had done something similar before—he was sure the situation would still be there to salvage. He only needed to make Carter's death look like an accident. He was, after all, the only one who'd seen Jack at the docks that fateful night. Without Carter's testimony, any charges against Jack would be lost.

_Unless he's already filed a report. _

If that was the case, then that would have to be taken care of, too, Jack decided.

For the rest of the drive home, Jack's mind worked in overdrive as he crafted a plan to kill Emma's brother. It had to be done. It was the right thing to do.

He was so distracted that he didn't notice the police cars parked outside his building until he was only yards away. There were five of them, lights flashing brightly in the darkness of the night and various cops standing around on the sidewalk, wearing bullet proof vests and talking into their walkies.

Jack felt a sudden chill run through him, and momentarily he panicked as his car approached the scene ever-so-slowly. _How did they find me?_

It was improbable—impossible-—that they had found his apartment, his hiding place. He wasn't in any public records—he didn't know why he wasn't, but he assumed it was just one of those things that had happened in his past that he couldn't remember—and Emma had never been to his apartment before. How, then, did they find him?

He was shaking, but he drove past the scene as inconspicuously as possible. The cops on the sidewalk stared at him as he passed, but it must have been too dark to make out any faces because they looked away and returned their attention elsewhere.

Jack let out a sigh of relief.

Now, it was time to find Carter.

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **__Guys, I'm not going to lie to you, this story has been such a pain in the you-know-what. Out of all my works thus far, I've stressed the most about this particular story. I've had to rewrite many of the chapters, as some of you are aware, and on that note I wanted to inform you all that some parts of chapter eight have been entirely rewritten. I was reading through it the other night and realized that a lot of Marcus's behavior and consequently his dialogue was rather inconsistent - which admittedly seemed to work for his character at first - but it was almost _too_ bizarre, how quickly his moods were changing and the way he would address Emma. So, if you do go back and reread the previous chapter, you might notice that he treats Emma with a bit more kindness and doesn't snap at her as much. What I wanted to establish was that Marcus is hopelessly and desperately in love with her, and ultimately he does not want to hurt or upset her. He is (not so) subtly trying to coax her into this mindset that he's her protector, and that he's the only man who could ever truly love her. I really tired to emphasize that in the last chapter when I made my edits._

_Thank you all so much for the reviews thus far, and for being ever so patient in waiting for my updates .I also wanted to add a special thanks to __**Gilraen85**__ for her lovely review. Hope you're still out there reading!_


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